


dawn breaks | 31 days

by inkhorn



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Body Worship, Exhibitionism, Human/Monster Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Anguish, POV Alternating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkhorn/pseuds/inkhorn
Summary: The first time Asterius saw him, he was sitting in the chair of a trireme. For the stories Asterius had heard of him, the Athenian prince Theseus was rather… unremarkable. His physique was broad but that was all that distinguished him from the ship’s soldiers; that, and the nicely beaded chlamys that lay over his armor. Tales of Theseus’ endeavors had unfortunately reached even the ears of Crete: Asterius had love for very few men, and none were the arrogant sort born of divine prophet.31 days of Theseus and Asterius oneshots written primarily following the Whumptober 2020 prompts. Chapters are not independent but don't follow chronological order. Smut chapters denoted by *s in the titles. Character list subject to be updated.
Relationships: Asterius | The Minotaur & Theseus (Hades Video Game), Asterius | The Minotaur/Theseus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 106
Kudos: 339
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smell of smoke was more a friend to him than the sweet ambrosia of the gods. Too many sips and it turned his stomach, birthed in him a protest that there must be something finer in the realms that suited him better. All he craved was the sea’s storm instead: the salt on his lips and the glory in his breast consuming him so wholly that his mortal father would die from it.
> 
> Prompt: Waking up restrained

**let’s hang out sometime  
**[ waking up restrained | shackles | hanging ]

The cold of steel bit into his wrists as Theseus stirred, flexing his fingers above the tired weight of his shoulders. Damn Erinyes. Without even opening his eyes he knew they had not returned him to the fields of Elysium. But — the smell of smoke was more a friend to him than the sweet ambrosia of the gods.

Too many sips and it turned his stomach, birthed in him a protest that there must be something finer in the realms that suited him better. It was a greed he supped time and time again, plagued from the moment he touched the steel of Aegeus’ sword and the pliant leather of his sandals… prizes dear to him, but bereft now. _Wealth finds only the man who first seeks gold_ , the lord of Lapith told him once over wine sacks. Was it not what he sought his entire life? Had he not achieved it, countless and gilded, to earn even the favor of Minos of Crete and open the gates to Elysium… which, surely, would satisfy him greater than Troezen and Athens combined.

Perhaps it did, for a time. And then the well-humored spars among his fellow heroes and the words of philosophers to turn his ear grew stale, and the hot blood swept through him again. He’d find himself sitting at the shores of gentle Okeanos, watching the stars rise and dip through its waters as the only gesture of time. All he craved was the sea’s storm instead: the salt on his lips and the glory in his breast consuming him so wholly that his mortal father would die from it, untamed and wild like a warhorse rather than growing fat in its pasture. So, inevitably, he’d found himself a new purpose. His dearest companion Pirithous still remained at the mercy of the Furies, lost in the twisted path of Hades despite his renown as a hero in the world above. What bitter irony that he, Theseus, lived eternal in Persephone’s garden while Pirithous was tortured for the miserable abduction of the maiden goddess — which, let none forget, was a crime Persephone had endured yet before.

He’d bid his god father for prayers. Poseidon had bestowed an ocean’s boon upon him to cut through the shades of Asphodel and beyond, though his tides were unpracticed, and the sting of the twin whips Alecto and Tisiphone found him in the Fields of Punishment near Erebus. Oh, he’d boasted to them like old friends: they were candid with cruel Demeter, and yet kept her beloved daughter buried in the darkness? Alecto had sneered that death had dulled his mind as such a name was no longer present in the Underworld. And then last he recalled, Tisiphone had set upon him to spill as much of his own blood as he’d demanded from others.

The gods and their trifles. At least the Furies could not punish him so viciously, as he was already a spirit. The pain was a blessing, in a way: a reminder of what Elysium had taken from him. Poseidon’s strength drained from his body and Pirithous certainly no closer, Theseus cracked open his eyes to gaze to find he dangled unceremonious from the obsidian wall of Erebus. Shackles bound his hands and as he tipped his head back against the wall, he could glimpse the chain holding him was swung about his glorious ruby-shafted spear, firmly piercing the stone. A bellowing laugh bubbled up in him and rang clear over the ragged desolation of Erebus.

“Hung like salted meat!” Theseus declared to none but the wandering souls. “Foul wretches, you keep your wings a single day longer! Not a drop of Titan’s blood can sway me from my noble quest, for the King of Lapith you have kept imprisoned in your unearthly stone—” But as the golden words spilled, he suddenly found his voice trailing as he became aware of a hulking figure watching his plight.

Erebus wore away the identity of its inhabitants, until they were naught but spirits destined to scrape across the scarred earth for eternity — but the chill of Hades could not disguise the creature that stood but fifteen feet before him. Horns curled out from his skull, outwards from the shawl of shade that downed his large physique. The liquid black eyes affixed in his bovine face were unchanged from how Theseus remembered them: the depth of them speared him, devoured the words on his tongue.

Those years ago, fingers sore from the lines of thread, the minotaur had been awaiting him at the center of the maze. He was the vengeance of Androgeus upon Athens, the vessel of King Minos to demand Athenian tribute after he had forced the prosperous city to its knees.

 _Do you savor the taste of their blood when they come to you, monster?_ Theseus had spat.

To his surprise, the monster opened his maw and responded.

 _No,_ the minotaur had said, in a low voice unbecoming of his might. _The maidens taught me to make wreaths of the labyrinth roses, and the men have told me of their former dreams to gratify their fathers. When I starved, they died with honor. But you, prince, were born in nothing but the glory of the gods, and it is your blood I will savor._

The words had shaken Theseus more than he dared to admit. Still, at the time, he had steeled himself that they were nothing but the excuses of a beast, whose very nature was to ruin cities and taste the blood of virgins. What ensued was a battle that played a song in his veins, and then finally the minotaur’s bulk lay unmoving at the center of the labyrinth with Theseus’ spear driven through its heart. As he placed a boot upon its body and hefted his weapon free, it occurred to him that the bull’s corpse was the only one in the quiet of the labyrinth. Theseus had anticipated finding him amongst a pile of marrow-sucked bones and his fur flecked a dry, eternal crimson. The monster must have consumed every bit of them, Theseus reasoned, sating its starvation and damning the sacrifices to be swallowed by Styx.

And yet there was a part of him that wondered, against all human reason. The point of his spear trailed footprints of that thick, dark blood behind him as he searched the earth, if only to prove that idle thought wrong. And then — one sweep of his boot uncovered the edge of ivory, and Theseus reeled back. The minotaur had buried them all. Theseus knew not how a being of such abominable conception ever came to learn this. Perhaps one of the maidens had whispered it in the funnel of his ear before she was slaughtered.

Silently, Theseus had dug up enough earth to dust it over the minotaur’s corpse. It should have mattered not, as it was dubious if such a fiend even had a soul to be judged. Why even be compelled? Not as he took Ariadne’s spool back in hand did Theseus have an answer, and he still did not now, looking back at the shrouded minotaur.

What irony that it had come for him in death. Had Tisiphone baited the bull to him using a trail of his blood? What a clever tormentor she would be… and yet, there was no path, nothing to guide the minotaur to his flesh.

“Hoh, fiend!” Theseus called to him. “A coward’s mantle is unbecoming of your horns, but the tempest shall meet your thirst for vengeance if that is what you desire.”

At first, he thought the silent challenge confirmed as the minotaur stepped closer, but then the beast simply snorted with a toss of his giant head and said no more.

Theseus shook back his fallen, blond bangs. “Your tongue must have been stolen from your snout by trickster Hermes, as you had plenty to say last we met. Have I done enough to quench your hunger for noble blood? To your contrary, my spear’s tip is _never_ sated for the death of beasts!”

The minotaur’s voice finally came. “My apologies. I thought that you spoke enough for us both,” he said, more tired than Theseus recalled it. The king scoffed at the jest, but the minotaur did not hesitate. In a moment the beast was up against him, closer than Theseus had ever been without a weapon in his hand and adrenaline sweating his brow.

“And just what is the meaning of this, monster?” he managed, thrashing against his binds. The work of Hephaestus, he decided, as the forged shackles scarcely yielded. The might of Poseidon was not his to command, but the polemical god would not let his charge be tortured so; any sort of vulnerability did not become Theseus, not when the dissentience of his mortal life had pursued him even to his death. He intended to call upon him — when the minotaur’s muscular arm arched suddenly above him and took hold of his divine spear. With a wrench of his shoulders, the beast pulled it free.

His boots hit the earth and the chains tumbled into a metallic, serpentine pile. Theseus inhaled a breath as though it was his first in Erebus; the minotaur was holding his brilliant spear, and Theseus took it from him, half-expecting for the monster to not let it go willingly. Even the most thick-headed of creatures would recognize its trembling power as where he placed the other of Poseidon’s blessings, after Hippolytus had been driven to the sea by the first. But there was no hesitation, and the minotaur took a few steps backwards after he had let go, perhaps afraid Theseus would strike him with it. Unbeknownst to him, the instinct was waning.

“Is this a kindness from you?” the king retorted. He fetched his shield from where it leaned against the wall and relished the renewed weight in his hands.  
  
“A returned favor,” came the reply, spoken as a correction. Theseus’ mouth thinned; the minotaur must have come to conclusion that he’d received a burial, and there was no other soul who would have navigated that dreaded maze to conduct it. Still, he would not confess to such a thing unless the fiend dragged it from him. But when the minotaur spoke next, it was not to accuse him at all. “Leave Erebus. You give the dead no peace.”

Peace. Theseus had no intention of the word. The souls who haunted Erebus had a shelter from damnation, but no identity in Hades, no glory or even mediocrity of which to speak. Argument rushed to him as quickly as a strike, but the words were storm clouds that would bear no thunder. Instead, he gave a bark of laughter, using his spear’s point to crack one of his shackles. “You are a fortunate one, today. Elysium beckons me back to her splendor, to steel myself before my victory over the Erinyes. Take heed, bull. Those who lead a vile and bloodthirsty existence shall find no peace from me.”

A rumbling noise swelled in the throat of the minotaur; contention, Theseus had to think, if he dared prescribe human emotions to an abomination. Then the beast turned, stalking away from him and soon swallowed by the fragile, yearning spirits of Erebus.

Theseus shattered the second cuff and let it fall to the ground as well. The moirai had intended for him to be accepted as prince of Athens, to triumph in his Labors, to slay the minotaur of Crete: there was no such fate after his string had been cut. The afterlife was an ever-changing labyrinth itself, and within it, guarded of Tyche’s watch, were mere coincidences. As he took up the path back to Okeanos, Theseus vowed that all of Erebus would soon hear of the Furies’ punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enemies to lovers, monsterfucking, and Greek mythology... this pairing was made for me. I couldn't help myself in writing about these two for Whumptober, I'll be following up with 1.5-2k word drabbles on the prompts that interest me. Thank you so much for reading, my twitter handle is first_ginger, feel free to stop by to say hi or talk to me about Hades!
> 
> I've decided to start including explanations for all references to Greek myths at the end of the chapter for ease of reading.  
> \- Pirithous was the King of Lapith and Theseus' closest friend; he accompanied Pirithous in his descent to Hades with the intention of stealing Persephone as his bride, but they were sealed to a rock by the Furies. Theseus was later rescued by Heracles, but the underworld shook when he tried to rescue Pirithous, as Pirithous' crime of intending to steal Persephone was too great.  
> \- Tisiphone is sometimes considered to be Demeter.  
> \- After Minos' son Androgeus was killed at the games in Athens, he waged war with Athens and upon his victory demanded seven men and seven maidens be sent into the labyrinth to be devoured by the minotaur.


	2. day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bank of Styx was as imposing as it always was, lost souls churning like dark waters in a cacophony, a song that numbed the mind. They had stood together in silence, watching the riverboat from where it began on the horizon as it drifted closer. The chill of souls was no external curse but one that bit deep at a man’s core, even after inhaling death.
> 
> Prompt: Pick who dies

**in the hands of the enemy  
**[ pick who dies | collars | kidnapped ]

The bank of Styx was as imposing as it always was, lost souls churning like dark waters in a cacophony, a song that numbed the mind. They had stood together in silence, watching the riverboat from where it began on the horizon as it drifted closer. Theseus had remarked bitterly about the infernal patience of the boatman and Asterius had offered him his shawl to cover his bare shoulders, though he’d staunchly refused; the chill of souls was no external curse but one that bit deep at a man’s core, even after inhaling death. It was the instinct of mortals to fear their end — not a shortcoming of Theseus’ own, of course. Asterius had managed to surprise him in saying he’d never been afraid of it, remarking simply that it was a cruel existence to hunger for mortals’ flesh all for the satisfaction of Poseidon.

As a scion of the sea god, Theseus had no reply to that, hence the silence. As he came to know the minotaur, Asterius, more intimately, he’d had time to ponder upon his companion’s nature. Asterius seemed content to call himself a beast, but Theseus would not relent on that light inside of him. For his part, Asterius had ceased to argue the matter with him, perhaps realizing that kings did not often think they were wrong.

Among Elysium, death was not often spoken of, which suited Theseus well. Time in the fields of splendor was better spent recounting heroic deeds and triumphs in battle: and Theseus had many, as he would often recount to the halls of his fellow heroes with wine-tainted breath. But still… privately he’d begun to wonder after it: his rejection from Athens, the jealous cruelty of Lycomedes, and the rare circumstance of his escort to Hades.

Cadmus and his love Harmonia were sheltered to the Underworld by Hermes, after they begged him to save their souls from their monstrous forms. Many of the others, however, were set upon by keres who stalked their battlefields like vultures, ripping their spirits from their bodies to feast upon the fresh death. It was a hero’s death, as cruel as it was. Antilochus described it to him once when they sparred. As soon as the sword of Memnon entered his breast, he could see them: shadows of Doom that circled the fray on wings sewn of Nyx’s night, and they came upon him with talons outstretched, awakening his consciousness in Tartarus. _Was it not the same for you?_ the prince asked of him, and Theseus had told him no, it was not a ker who first found him on those cold rocks.

His Death wore as beautiful a face as the poets sang, with hair like a crown of starlight. It was a marvel Sisyphus had the will to refuse him, not once but _twice_ : to hear the gentle words of Thanatos, the nightly Eros, and not follow him into the beyond. Had he still been a king, Theseus was certain he could have denied him… but now, what was the purpose? What else awaited him on the earthly realm? The Dioscuri had stolen back from him his pride, sweet Helen, and left Athens to the coward Menestheus. Skyros would not have him, or any island besides, not while he was an enemy of the city he had loved so dearly. Thanatos told him as much: _Nothing else remains. Come… this won’t take long_. The metal of his scythe was like freedom, a final exhale that let Theseus’ spirit leave his chest.

Theseus wondered if Asterius’ death was the same. Would the peace by which he fell into it have called Thanatos to his side? Or did the keres flock Theseus and his spear, awaiting the foe he would strike down for them next?

Charon’s ferry was close enough now that Theseus could see the boatman’s brittle fingers wrapped around the oar and the shine of his amethyst eye beneath his hat’s brim. “Finally! As I told you: the ferryman always comes for an obol, my friend.” He reached to pat Asterius’ forearm and the minotaur flinched beneath his touch. Nothing of consequence to Theseus; Asterius seemed quite foreign to most gestures of friendship.

The ferry came to a pause against the bank and Theseus stepped forward to greet their guide. He and Charon had met many times now, what with Theseus’ penchant for fully exploring Hades, and the riches of Elysium had granted him the favor — or at least agreement — of the ferryman. From his tunic he procured a drachma and offered it. “A small fortune for your assistance, good fellow! My companion and I require passage to the fields beyond, as hastily as you can make it.”

An unearthly groan seethed from Charon’s obscured face as he reached out, taking the drachma from Theseus’ hand.

“Can he not speak?” Asterius murmured beside him.

It was the bane of Theseus to admit he did not know. “Not to us, it seems. No matter, it takes no words to chart our course to our most noble destination. Mark my words, Asterius, the terror of Erebus shall keep you its prisoner no longer!”

The low snort from his companion had Theseus thinking that Asterius could relate well to Charon’s ways. The minotaur had been resilient to the idea of leaving Erebus, for he was somehow attached to the notion that was where he belonged. Nothing irritated Theseus more than his friend throwing his old words back in his face: calling himself a monster of abominable birth, a devourer of virgins… not that Theseus would admit such preconceived notions were _incorrect_ , but they were not the whole truth. By the Fates’ fortune had he been born with the blood of Poseidon and the legacy of his father’s sword. And by that same fortune, Asterius was only the aftermath to Poseidon’s punishment of Minos, the curse born from blasphemy to repeat itself again and again. Theseus had argued that Asterius was a noble warrior and had shown much kindness to those he slaughtered by granting them a burial, and he was undeserving to just have been discarded amongst the unjudged of Erebus. 

Finally, Asterius had relented. Theseus could see some sprig of hope within him, and he was determined to foster it.

The drachma in Charon’s bony fingers vanished into mist with a flick of his wrist, and momentarily reappeared nested among the obols that hung from his necklace. He groaned once more, purple smoke expelling from his maw as he lifted a single ashen finger: _One_.

Theseus scowled. “A hard bargain you drive, darkshroud. Fortunately, I have the splendors of Elysium at my belt and a spirit that that shall not rest until you see fit to carry my friend and I.” And he drew out another drachma, holding it pointedly before the ferryman.

That skeletal face was impenetrable, but Charon appeared to consider, before giving a moan to acquiesce. The second drachma folded into his hand and then he stepped aside with a sweep of his long, gold-trimmed sleeve, offering a spot in the boat.

“Hoh! See, Asterius, prosperity and determination overcome even the most devious of our foes. There is nothing that can resist the glorious unity of our will.”

Asterius’ great shoulders heaved a sigh as he followed Theseus aboard. “As you say, king.”

There was something comedic about seeing Asterius’ large body within the ferry, hunched so tightly over himself. Theseus observed him as Charon pushed his oar against the bank, sending them floating into the current of Styx. Such a peculiar thing, for Asterius to be so conscious of his own self, to cast his eyes over the rim of the boat at the depths of Styx as though there was any godly force that could defeat him. It was certain, Theseus thought, that no other hero could have vanquished Asterius: it must have been inevitable that he was the one to free Asterius from Poseidon’s curse, to release him to Hades and then guide him to an eternity in Elysium. That gave him some comfort against the accursed topic they never raised: Asterius’ death, and whatever had become of him in Erebus before Theseus had found him again.

Or, well, Asterius had found Theseus. However one wished to put it, but the original point still stood.

A smile on his face, Theseus reached across the length of the boat to touch Asterius’ hand with his own. Predictably, the minotaur flinched, though he did not pull away. “You belong, my friend. Do not doubt yourself now.” Asterius huffed in response, and Theseus could not help his shining laugh at his companion’s stubbornness. He would see, eventually. There was no hurry, not now.

Humor slowly drained, Theseus released a great exhale, leaning back in his seat and looking out over the waters of Styx. He had not come by his legacy by doubting himself. On the contrary, such a thought went against his very nature. The urge to act strummed through him even from youth, singing him a life of few regrets and far more glory. The Fates had been neither cruel nor kind to him, but simply _were_ , and for the very moment in a while, Theseus let himself bask in utter contentment. The dreaded dissatisfaction that pursued him in Elysium had been quelled by none other than Asterius: since their first meeting, Theseus had been instilled with a vigor the halls of the Elysian Fields could not contend. It was not an option to eternally leave Erebus, as he’d been instructed by the minotaur himself. And now it was obvious why: they were the blessing and the curse of Poseidon, each with a strength that only rivaled the other.

As his gaze flitted back to Asterius, Theseus’ mood plummeted like a shot put through his fingers. The minotaur was — _dissolving_ , his fingers shimmering with the emptiness of a shade like something was peeling back his fur to reveal his essence beneath. “Asterius!” Theseus gasped immediately, and as those black eyes met his, Asterius’ jaw parted in horror and he leaned to close the gap between them.

“What is this?” he rumbled, and his spiritual fingers reached up as though he intended to caress Theseus’ face — and stopped short, as he caught sight of them himself. His neck craned to examine his vanishing hand and Theseus could see an ethereal fracture along his neck, licking its way up to his mane. Only when the king reached out himself did he see it: his own hand, already a specter of what it once was. Sheer instinct flew his hand to his own cheek, but it met no sensation of flesh, passing right through until it brushed against his opposite jaw. Theseus jerked his arm away. What a horrible, disgusting feeling.

Before he could even demand an explanation, Charon’s entire body appeared to swivel beneath his cloak to face them and he groaned. The haze drowned his countenance as he once again lifted up that one, single finger.

One passage.

“ _No_!” Theseus shouted. “I reject this! Charon, you cruel harvester, we have paid more than our price, I—!” He could not see the sentence through. His heart pounded heavy in his head. How foolish of him not to predict the preposterous rules of Hades. After consider anything beyond his desire to free Asterius from the clutches of Erebus. One soul crossed Styx, and only one soul could cross back.

“Return me to the shore.”

Theseus’ head snapped to Asterius. The minotaur spoke with such authority that it bubbled a challenge within him, steeled by the sick feeling in his stomach as he watched an ethereal crack draw across Asterius’ hairline. “I will not abandon you, Asterius. I have told you my mission, and you should know I will not relent in it, not even if this damned realm seeks to deny me!”

“You are fading fast, king,” Asterius continued. Theseus’ teeth ground. His companion was correct, for he was realizing abruptly his spectral feet were passing right through his boots as he swung them in defiance. Death was a peculiar thing in Hades, Theseus had learned, and a mere inconvenience to those in Elysium rather than a true punishment. However, they were no longer in Elysium. If he had to presume, the fate of those who died outside of the pastures would be to reborn not within their splendor, but elsewhere. Outside Erebus? The depths of Tartarus? Theseus could not say, but for certain Asterius had no sway within the Underworld. Wherever he awoke, he could be trapped eternally, and Theseus would not know where to find him again.

The former king forced a smile onto his face. “Then you shall carry on in our stead,” he declared. “Your soul shall reach the other bank, Asterius, I will accept no less. This infernal tide shall take me, and when I rise again, I will seek you once more.”

Shock painted Asterius’ face, then defiance. The minotaur’s now-spectral hands balled into fists. “You are not thinking. Pride is blinding you, do not do this.”

Theseus gave a final bough of laughter. Pride was his sight, not his blindfold. “Do not worry, I have faced the darkness of Hades before, and I have no fear to conquer again! Erebus could not separate us, and far sooner than you think will I return to your side. Where is your faith in me, dear friend?” The image of Asterius dissolving before him was growing too urgent to bear. Theseus staggered to his feet, the shade of his body moving like a dream he was trapped within. With final determination, he teetered near the edge of the boat — and then cast himself over, eyes staring up at the surface of the Underworld rather than to catch Asterius’ face, to burn himself in guilt, as he felt the rush of the frigid spirits engulf him.

“Theseus!”

The minotaur’s voice bellowed his name, the first he’d ever spoken it, somewhere distantly from the surface. Or was it just a hallucination of Styx? So quickly he’d forgotten his senses. That whispering song was deafening within the water; if there was any of him that remained corporeal, it was licked away by the greedy spirits, howling words in his ears that he could not escape. He was falling, _falling_ , and it was so familiar, like watching the cliff’s edge rise away from him — but this time there was nothing above, nothing below. Shades who had long lost their human form twisting about him, catching him by the throat and snapping his head back, by his arms and his legs, their freezing smoke twisting through his fingers as he grappled at nothing. So dearly he wished to fight, but what for? He had thrown himself upon his sword, though instead of blood it was the throes of ice, vicious retribution, the terror of the keres he had denied before, with wings made of damned bodies and talons of lost cries.

And he was _falling_.

Theseus closed his eyes, or at least he attempted so, as the sight of the spirits still danced against his eyelids. Jaw agape, they flooded him, silencing the warmth that he coated him so thoroughly moments before. If he let his mind float free from his body, he could nearly imagine the thousands of sentences they sang to him. If he truly tried, he could picture Asterius’ voice saying his name, rippling above the cacophony like a heartbeat.

 _Have faith_ , the words ghosted through his mind, and then all fell white, like he passed into a heavy slumber.  
  


* * *

  
Clarity returned to him sharply as he came to. His body was weary but whole again, resting against the shallow banks of… well, he wasn’t certain, but the air felt thicker and the scent of ozone and char assaulted him. Theseus blinked open his eyes, wondering improbably if the events before were but a dream: but as nothing but waters as bright red as blood greeted him, he waved that from his mind. This was certainly not Elysium, and there was nothing to do but keep moving. Theseus pulled himself to his feet and the waters, no longer so cold or so filled with spirits, slicked free of his garments and skin and dripped back into their basin.

“Where…?” the king managed in a wavering voice that did _not_ become him, but it was at that moment he spotted a red-robed figure perched close and curious to the edge of the pool. For a moment the individual’s pale face seemed familiar — but upon second glance no, no it was not. As Theseus stared back into yawning amber of his eyes, his head spun with unimaginable exhaustion. This was a _god_ , he scarcely had time to think, for the man’s voice was pulling away what little sense of presence he had left:

“Drowned in Styx, huh? Boy, you sure sunk like a rock! Hate to break it to you, coming from Elysium and all, but the river always leads down to here...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2! Thank you so much for reading, I couldn't work in collars or kidnapping... well, conventional kidnapping I guess.
> 
> \- Antilochus was an Achaean in the Trojan War and died in battle to Memnon, sacrificing himself for his father.  
> \- Thanatos is the god of a peaceful death, while the keres prey upon those who have died a violent death on the battlefield. Thanatos is described as so beautiful he's often compared to Eros. Love that for him.  
> \- The Dioscuri twins, brothers to Helen, stole her back while Theseus was in the Underworld and helped to mount Menestheus as the new king of Athens. Theseus fled to Skyros where Lycomedes worried Theseus would dethrone him and tossed him off a cliff to die.


	3. day 3*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asterius would bow his head to permit Theseus to coat his great horns in ruby stone warpaint the king had learned from the people of the Indus River in life: there was no other man or spirit who Asterius trusted to caress him, and Theseus savored the privilege. They were far beyond the simplest of affectionate gestures now, but to recall the first time Asterius had not flinched beneath his touch, or when he pressed his head to Theseus’ chest as Theseus combed out his mane… fraternity was a pitiful way to describe what existed between them, but it would do. If Asterius was teaching him anything, it was that he’d never find the perfect words to describe some feelings anyway.
> 
> Prompt: Forced to their knees

**my way or the highway | _kinktober d3  
_**[ manhandled | forced to their knees | _body worship_ ]

Crisp always was the air of Elysium, scented by the garden’s blossoms and the river run of Okeanos come to bubble in majestic stone fountains. It had been said that the Elysian Fields were the gift of Hades to his bride, who would bring with her seeds and bulbs to enliven her paradise into the surface underground. Blessed that she turned the Lord of the Dead’s ear to permit mortal souls to rejoice among her creation for all of eternity. Rhadamanthus spoke of her kindly, though she came to Elysium no more. In some ways it mattered not (as she had already enchanted Okeanos to keep her blooms ever-growing), but they would still praise her name when they indulged in her crops until pomegranate juice dripped from their chins.

In that day, Theseus had tempted Asterius to taste the glaucous plums in the fields beyond the arena. It was a marvel how little the minotaur knew of food and delicacies. Theseus delighted in each moment he could show Asterius something new, now that his companion did not crave mortal sustenance to live. Even olives he was unaccustomed to: Theseus had twined a kotinos for him of the leaves and braided it through his mane to match his own, and it pleased him to see Asterius had never removed it.

The bonds that drew them together were no longer subtle. Asterius had been more shy of it than him, though Theseus never cowed from his desires. There was never a doubt it wasn’t reciprocated. Asterius would bow his head to permit Theseus to coat his great horns in ruby stone warpaint the king had learned from the people of the Indus River in life: there was no other man or spirit who Asterius trusted to caress him, and Theseus _savored_ the privilege. They were far beyond the simplest of affectionate gestures now, but to recall the first time Asterius had not flinched beneath his touch, or when he pressed his head to Theseus’ chest as Theseus combed out his mane… fraternity was a pitiful way to describe what existed between them, but it would do. If Asterius was teaching him anything (as he should, in return for finally tasting pateli), it was that he’d never find the perfect words to describe some feelings anyway.

They’d napped together in the shade beneath the plum trees. Theseus had risen full of zest and roused Asterius to spar with him. When he came to Elysium, Theseus had requested Daedelus make him an axe worthy of his might, to be a companion to his spear. That weapon had pursued him to the afterlife: after all, Poseidon’s blessing had commanded it to always find its way back to his hand, and not even the gates of Erebus could stop it. However it seemed fitting for the crafter of Asterius’ prison to build him a weapon besides his horns or his teeth — and he’d said as much when he presented it to Asterius, that none should ever again think he was anything but a noble warrior.

Asterius had taken to his axe well, and while he took a bit of coaxing to be willing to swing it at Theseus, he had since become the king’s favorite sparring partner. How could any other man rival Asterius’ strength? It was peerless, the way his muscles heaved beneath the weight of his gallant weapon.

Beneath the golden glow of Elysium, the cut of Asterius’ axe clanged against Theseus’s shield, reverberating harmlessly. The grass around their boots was flattened with the exertion of their fight and the earth had been carved from missed blows — but what was paradise for, if not to ruin without guilt, to trust that it would always rebuild?

“Ha-ha! It would seem your might has met its match by the face of my shield!” Theseus crowed as he hefted his spear towards Asterius’ shoulder. More than once, Asterius had commented that Theseus seemed to waste valuable breath with his remarks; the king had brushed away the veiled suggestion. They each appreciated battle differently, and for Theseus, it was a sport deserving of his noble appreciation.

The minotaur whirled about with his axe, knocking it from the air in a brilliant arc of magenta. It stuttered but a moment on the grass before it trembled and flew back to meet its master’s waiting hand. Theseus twirled it in his fingers and spun it about himself, forcing Asterius to take a few guarded steps back to avoid its tip.

“Watch your defenses, my dear friend! Your unclad chest affords you no—”

The rest of the sentence was swallowed by a choke. Asterius had lunged forward, axe poised above his head, and brought it driving into the ground with a tremorous quake. Theseus’ feet stammered as he tried to regain his stance, but Asterius had already found his opening. Barely he was able to deflect Asterius’ axe against his shield, too weakly held, which was but a ploy to expose his torso. The minotaur’s shoulder ducked and drove into his chest. Breath exploded from him as Theseus stumbled backwards, slipped, and hit the ground.

A second later the ruby edge of Asterius’ axe was beneath his chin. It tipped his head upwards to look into Asterius’ bold eyes looming above him.

“Speak less of my chest, king, and mind _your_ defenses.”

Somehow, loss was not so bitter when it came at Asterius’ hands. Theseus laughed as he caught his breath — though his heart leapt as his champion began to draw away his weapon.

“Do not yield to your foe so easily, Asterius!” Theseus interjected. A spark had formed in his expression; defeat had only made his ardor grow, though its tastes had shifted. “A true victor, as you are, deserves to savor his triumph.”

Asterius paused, and Theseus pulled himself to his knees but no higher as his companion caught up to his intention.

“And you are an honorable opponent.” The axe was back at his neck with renewed interest. “Who will show me appreciation for my mercy.”

Never had the king been practiced in disguising his emotions, for he’d never had a need. His eyes lit with titillation, and as Asterius moved the axe to plant it firmly in the earth beside him, Theseus let the floodgates break. He leaned in to brush his greedy lips against the muscle of Asterius’ thigh. Gods, it was all _his_. No Athenian treasure could compare to what Crete had foolishly locked away: a sculpture born of Minos’ treachery that was the gods’ greatest creation. His hands found their way to the minotaur’s leg and his fingers roamed it with the fervency of a dying man. Trails of kisses pursued where he stroked and he moaned, unabashed, against Asterius’ fur. That inspired his companion for Theseus felt the weight of Asterius’ hand against the back of his head. There was never any need to demand him to indulge, but the firm press of Asterius’ fingers in his golden hair maddened him more than any arrow of Eros’ lust.

“Glorious,” he gasped; his legs had parted to straddle the breadth of Asterius’ leg, and he rolled his hips now against them. “Oh, _Asterius_ , carved from the marble of Aetna! Hephaestus has blessed all of Greece with your naked splendor, he has called to worship the unbridled majesty of your physique, _ah_ —” The hand in his hair _yanked_ , and Theseus shuddered entirely, his cock stiffening against Asterius’ shin.

“Talk less,” came the command.

Theseus could not deny it, not when the minotaur was cupping the base of his skull and pulling him to the hem of his tunic. He readjusted himself so he kneeled between Asterius’ legs, prostrate at his most beloved altar of Poseidon. Hands glided up each of the minotaur’s thighs so his thumbs could run circles in the dip between his legs and torso. Asterius’ muscles stiffened beneath his touch and Theseus could feel the urgency in his grasp: _Do you like to see me like this?_ he would have asked, were he not playing the part of the grateful opponent. Though as his eyes danced upwards to catch Asterius’ for a brief moment, the darkness of his eyes was blown wide, and Theseus knew such a question didn’t even need to be said.

Asterius released him as his head ducked beneath the cloth to where Asterius’ cock, already stirred in interest, was beginning to press against it. It had taken him so long to tempt out the interests of his beloved; Asterius was hesitant, trapped in the folds of self-loathing and worry there was nothing he could offer but pain. Even now, Theseus had to wonder if Asterius had a particular interest in commanding, not matter how often he’d called Theseus _king_ with reverence in his deep voice. Alas, he would be the movement of Okeanos to embolden this blossom. Theseus wrapped his hand tight around the base of Asterius’ cock, drawing his palm up its impressive length. A bellowing groan and Asterius’ hips pushing into him was its own reward for how _sensitive_ the long-untouched bull was, but Theseus could show his appreciation in greater ways than that.

His lips parted to take Asterius on his tongue, and then further, the minotaur’s cockhead nearly brushing against the back of his throat. Asterius’ moans were a chorus the Muses would envy, and his hand found Theseus’ hair again, bundling up the tunic as he fisted his hair with a fervor Theseus could drink forever. Even as the king’s tongue appreciated a vein on the underside of his cock, Asterius expressed his dissatisfaction with the pace by urging Theseus’ mouth deeper. Previously he had lamented that he could not take all of Asterius’ pride into his mouth: his own ego had dared him, but he’d choked, and never again had he tried… except now, and he willed his throat to relax, eyes lolling as Asterius pushed into him near completely. The stretch of his jaw around Asterius’ cock was merely a dull pain compared to the way his companion _trembled_ , excited and quick breaths rolling through him. Theseus could not have anticipated the way Asterius slowly began to piston, his thick cock sliding out then ramming into his throat again. The revelation washed over him again and again with each thrust, setting all of his nerves alight as he dug his fingers against Asterius’ skin. Gods, he had never been _used_ by the minotaur before. Had Asterius dreamed of this? Had he fisted his own cock, imagining Theseus’ lips tight around him? Or had lust taken him in this moment, driven him to animalistic instinct to triumph over the foe he’d bested?

Saliva dribbled from Theseus’ lips and strung to Asterius’ cock as his companion suddenly pulled out. The king managed a weak groan, settling back against his heels as Asterius took a step away from him. It was a delight to see Asterius so flushed, an expression only he could bring him. A honeyed smile found its way to Theseus’ face as he watched Asterius undo his massive belt and let the fabric fall to his ankles. And he could not help himself; his hand reached between his legs to wrap about his member, stroking in time with his soft pants and the bounce of his hips as he drank in the sight of Asterius’ wet, hard cock, flagging so beautifully between his thighs.

Blessedly, that entire body was over his in a moment. Asterius was guiding him down to the flat of his back, pulling apart his legs to splay out from him, dragging away his eager hand and pinning his wrist to the ground.

Theseus gave a noise of protest. “Do you punish me? My lips cannot taste you, and my hand is now detained for only the crime of a man left wanting, _oh_ , craving the touch of his beloved!”

Asterius snorted in false apathy. “Next time, do not lose.”

It was difficult to be truly distraught with Asterius’ powerful physique above him. The sight alone would have been enough to arouse him; his spine arched up wantonly, his pupils so far dilated as they roved over Asterius’ glorious chest, the arch of his neck, the sheer weight of his hand holding him hostage. The minotaur seemed content in his verdict, for suddenly he released him, instead freeing Theseus’ belt and dragging the cloth of his chiton from his body.

It was bliss to be completely bare beneath him. Theseus spread his thighs in temptation, but Asterius would not be swayed. The bull’s large thumbs circled his nipples first, drawing a deep hum from the king. It was easy to fall into the haze of Asterius appreciating his body. Those hands traced along his chest, then dipped down his ribs into the cleft of his hips. They massaged the underside of his thighs, teasing and thorough, Theseus’ hitching his legs higher beneath their touch in a _please, please, please_ —

And then Asterius pulled away, and Theseus huffed his dissent. The minotaur was standing and moving to their belongings, predictably, though Theseus was never one to silence his displeasure. “Asterius, I had no mind you could be capable of such cruelty,” he moaned. “Gods, you leave me empty, how I cry to Eros only for the warmth of you to fill me!”

Not deigned with a reply other than a snort, Asterius’ footsteps returned, one palm already stroking oil along his length, the other holding the vial of olive oil. Another blessed virtue of the olive, Theseus had told him before. A sigh passed through Theseus’ lips and he let his head lean back against the ground as Asterius knelt between his legs. Each time the minotaur’s fingers penetrated him felt like the first again, save the fact there was no hesitation now in Asterius’ movements. His sigh escalated into a gasp as Asterius’ oiled forefinger pushed within him, then shortly a second, loosening him.

“The gods must favor you. I have no strength to refuse your prayers,” the minotaur finally replied.

Theseus hummed in dim interest, for Asterius had begun to fondle him with his free hand. “Then I would have found my honorable place among the hierei, if it were by the gods’ glorious fortune I first came by your cock.”

“It is always for you,” Asterius murmured, and Theseus stirred at the sudden sentimentality of his words.

“And I accept, again and again,” he replied softly, reaching to cradle the bull’s head in his hands. In life, it had been unimaginable that Asterius was such a romantic, though in death, it was as stalwart as his horns. “For you, heavenly Aphrodite’s dawn never fades.”

Asterius’ fingers departed, and the minotaur positioned himself over him. His hand now gripped Theseus’ upper thigh, spreading the limb as Theseus hooked his heel across his back best he could, so dwarfed by Asterius’ body. He wrapped his arms around Asterius’ neck and buried his forehead against the tautness of the bull’s shoulder. Asterius was guiding himself inside, his width pulling a stuttering moan from Theseus’ lips. Gods, was Asterius grander than any man he’d bedded before; their first coupling had been frayed with Asterius’ anxiety and Theseus’ ragged determination to feel Asterius completely inside of him. His pride was rewarded — though the effort of it more damning than the poppies of Hypnos. Nowadays, he didn’t know how he ever endured without it.

With Asterius seated completely within him, Theseus groaned his approval, running his fingertips against the bull’s short mane. In tune with Asterius’ romanticism, Theseus had entirely expected they would transition to their typical gentle romp, previous roughness forgotten — though Asterius took him by surprise as he slid out, then forcefully jerked his hips back within him.

“Asterius—!” A choke caught in Theseus’ throat and his nails bit into the Asterius’ shoulders. His companion’s growl vibrated through his skin, but he did not relent, and Theseus was scarcely aware of the noises bleeding from his lips: whining moans, as the pleasure-pain of being split open so thoroughly sent warmth bubbling beneath his skin. What _desire_ Asterius had hid from him beneath his tender worry! Theseus’ head spun at being the being that had summoned Eros’ arrow to Asterius’ side, to unveil a creature who wanted to _claim_ him so utterly. His head sagged back, ardor reaching a fever pitch as Asterius strummed the deepest sensitivity within him — _oh_ , his toes curled like a maiden’s, thighs trembling as they sought to drag Asterius ever closer, ever _deeper_.

And then the bull paused, pulling himself completely from Theseus with a gruff groan of his own. The emptiness he left in his wake was consuming and Theseus protested like a damned soul of Tartarus. His hands clenched Asterius’ mane tighter, throat clenching to form his dissent.

“Get on your stomach,” Asterius rumbled as he hovered above him.

Gods, that authoritative note to his voice stopped Theseus short: it was so unfamiliar and so damn _thrilling_. A shudder rolled through his body that he attempted to smother into a breathless laugh. Asterius’ hands were bruising against his thighs and the bull’s face radiated such intensity. “Have you now forgotten _your_ patience, dear Asterius?”

The reply was sharp and immediate. “You tell your victor to wait?”

“Hoh!” The noise sprung from him as his brows rose. Something had been awoken in his companion, something more delicious than the sweetest of Elysium’s nectar. Theseus inclined his head. “And why does the victor of the gardens not remind me of his strength?”

A gasp punctuated his request as Asterius gripped hold of his hips and flipped him. The effortlessness of the movement sent his heartbeat pounding in his head, with a small relief that Asterius could not see his stunned expression. Asterius’ hands were against his chest and then sliding back to his hips, and Theseus arched beneath their command. His entire body was burning, _wanting_ beneath the minotaur’s body he could feel looming now over his own. Suddenly the feeling of his cock was hot and slick against his rear, rubbing against the cleft as Asterius rutted as though in heat. And then he was positioning himself again, mounting Theseus from behind and pressing the king’s shoulders down so his chest was flush against the grass. Gods, he must have looked a _mess_ : sweat wetting his body and matting his certainly ruined hair against his head, grass staining the dark skin of his knees… and yet the vision of it unexpectedly made him tremble, picturing himself so completely debauched beneath Asterius’ might.

The minotaur entered him with as much force as before, and a determined grunt that made Theseus throb. Unrelenting, the roughness of his thrusts was met with how he’d drag Theseus’ hips back to meet him, unsheathing himself completely then pushing himself to the hilt within Theseus’ insides. A ragged moan shook the king at the sensation of being so _utterly_ full, the way Asterius ignited the fervor within him.

“ _Ah_ — Asterius, _yes_ ” he managed, the words raw and, for once, failing him so utterly. His body was taut yet boneless, jerking in sensitivity as Asterius’ cock kept rubbing within him. He shifted himself so he could reach a hand back to cup himself, fisting his member in time with the weight of Asterius’ pistons.

“Good, Theseus,” Asterius’ voice came from above him, and the minotaur’s head dipped close, for Theseus could feel his breath blowing against his hair and the sweat on the back of his neck.

It was the voice that drove him mad, made his cock twitch in his hand, his lips parted in a gasp even as his cheek rubbed against the hardness of the earth. For eternity he could listen to it: the bellow that quaked his bones, fueling his trembling gasps. He could tell Asterius was reaching his precipice: the minotaur’s pants were pitching in desperation, his hips trembling and his thrusts becoming shallower as he drove himself to completion. Theseus’ own strokes became more ragged and _gods_ he needed his own orgasm just as much as he so desperately needed to feel Asterius’ release inside of him. A roar on his lips, Asterius came, leaning heavy over his body as Theseus shouted, feeling the warmth fill him. With a few tight strokes he spilled himself as well, sputtering over his fist and rutting his hips back against Asterius’ softening cock.

His sense returned to him as his orgasm subsided: the ache of his body, and the way Asterius’ hand was rubbing gentle circles on his back. Theseus groaned, wiping his cum on the grass below him and rolling over to gaze at him. Asterius slipped out of him and his cum leaked to coat Theseus’ thighs, rapidly cooling against his skin.

The minotaur’s face was as soft as he knew it before, tender dark eyes gazing down at him. “Are you alright, king? Do you hurt?”

At the contrast of his question now, Theseus laughed, gentle and tired. He reached up and affectionately stroked Asterius’ snout. No other could challenge him, support him, and please him all in one. “Your mercy has exhausted me completely, champion. I dare to say that none other could have taught the _magnificence_ of appreciation so well as you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give it up for day 3! Obligatory PWP chapter... that got away from me in length oops. I haven't written smut in a while, I need to get back in the zone! Since I decided this would be a smut chapter, I dipped into the kinktober prompts, which I'll continue doing for any future smut. (Or if anyone has any requests and wants to comment!)
> 
> Asterius: I love you  
> Theseus: I know
> 
> \- The people of the Indus River are from India, though gemstone painting was truly developed about two hundred years ago in Rajasthan  
> \- Hephaestus' forge was in Mount Aetna  
> \- Hierei were aristocratic priests who served a god's temple


	4. day 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His earliest memories were tainted with rage that boiled over like a son of Thera. His mother’s milk had scarcely sustained him, and he had no will to remain in his crib like a human infant. He was tempestuous, a terror to his siblings. Even Asterius himself, ever the steed of his own self-loathing, would admit he should have been left to the woods. The bull’s blood would have found its rightful place to Poseidon. But it was not so. Pasiphaë gave him a king’s name, like the stars her father Helios brightened in the sky.
> 
> Prompt: Collapsed building

**running out of time  
**[ caged | buried alive | collapsed building ]

After he left his mother’s arms, Asterius never knew another home.

His earliest memories were tainted with rage that boiled over like a son of Thera. His mother’s milk had scarcely sustained him, and he had no will to remain in his crib like a human infant. He was tempestuous, a terror to his siblings. Even Asterius himself, ever the steed of his own self-loathing, would admit he should have been left to the woods: once Pasiphaë’s lust was sated, all evidence of the deed should have been burned. The bull’s blood would have found its rightful place to Poseidon. As an abandoned babe, the wilderness would have devoured him — or perhaps he would have drawn the eye of Lady Artemis to transform him into a beast of the wilds, plagued by a sense of humanity no longer.

But it was not so. Pasiphaë gave him a king’s name, like the stars her father Helios brightened in the sky. When he’d bloody her breast, she’d rub valerian on his gums and put him to sleep. What love, the likes he’d never seen again. Such a foolish child he’d been, to believe she was his first prison. It was surely only by her grace that the King Minos had permitted him to remain like a cuckoo among his other children for so long. Asterius had no love for his human king father and yet no hatred either. In life, Asterius had known no heroes and no villains. They were all the same: not like him. Even his mother… and the love he finally found for her was too late to matter.

(A thought had occurred to him, in the cold of Erebus. Asterius had long assumed it was Poseidon’s wrath that made Pasiphaë take with child after a single copulation. Though all of Crete knew Pasiphaë as a mistress of herbalism and fertility, and thus it was with equal thought fascination and horror that Asterius wondered — had she _wanted_ him? Was her lust so great she planned a _child_?)

His second prison had been built for him not far from the place of his birth. It was just as well, as the palace could no longer contain him. Guards had met their demise by the stem of his budding horns in his thirst to trample the earth beneath his feet as far as he could run. His mother had not been present when they’d baited him within the labyrinth’s stone walls. Beneath Minos’ eye, he’d been roused with arrow pricks to his flesh and then set after a bloodied hound deep into the maze. By the time he’d caught the creature and torn its heart from its chest, he was well lost within its infinity.

And now, he had met his third. Erebus was no exception to the life the Fates had strung him. After the hero had gouged his breast, after his transport to the Underworld — he had awoken among nothing. There was no judgment of which the maidens had spoken, not that he deserved it. Asterius had anticipated the sudden death that became a beast like himself… not for his soul to rise in the Underworld, a land destined for men, even the cruel vastness of Erebus. Time and space were swallowed by its domain. Its charred landscape swirled with dark fogs, emptying those who stalked it, forgotten across the River Styx. A blessing it would have been to have forgotten himself, had not the same question kept circling him. _Why_ had he been brought here? The hero had facilitated his journey… but why?

Asterius had ask the newborn shades of him: King Theseus he had become, a champion of Athens, who had even carried the bodies of the Seven Against Thebes so they might find rest in Hades. How much bleaker his own soul felt compared to such a golden one! They were both sons of kings and words of legend… though Asterius’ did not even bear his own name.

At least down here, he could not be reminded of the stars.

He had found Theseus in Erebus one day, humiliated by the Furies, which would have been an amusing contrast to his glory if Asterius had not been so shaken by his presence. Of course, the king had not heeded his request to never return; again and again they came across each other, each time Theseus demanding a spar. Asterius finally relented and promptly flipped the man to the ground, whereupon Theseus exclaimed Asterius was his grandest rival and after that, the hounding never ceased. Asterius had found that he did not mind it so much. It made the yawning of Erebus less dark, and Theseus’ colorful words of abhorrence soon vanished… and were replaced by his thunderous laughter and claps to Asterius’ back. But it was not so terrible.

Presently, Theseus had drawn him into a hero’s quest through the twists of Erebus. He talked excitedly about the pestle of Polemos, who was born of war but sought to turn his teeth back upon the mortals who created it. To this end his servant Tumult was given the great task of finding his means, and thus he bargained with the Dactyls to create Polemos a pestle so powerful it could grind out cities. They had not the will to refuse him, but Celmis made it so his pestle could not be held, and Polemos picked up and dropped with great rage all the way back to the Underworld.

“And the pestle! The poets wrote of the day Polemos went to wield it, the great quakes that thundered through Greece as it slipped through his murderous fingers again and yet again!”

The boldness of Theseus’ voice reverberated through the cave they’d entered. With the dense fog penetrating even in here, it was difficult to see far in front of or behind them. Theseus had claimed he’d pinned the Fury Tisiphone and tortured her with his spear until she’d gestured towards this very cavern as the home of Polemos. There was some vision Theseus had, of rescuing a companion lost deep within Tartarus, and he believed that the pestle could crack the stone the man was imprisoned upon. Naturally, he had appealed to Asterius with tales of divine cruelty.

“When I quested through Erebus years ago, I saw the gaunt faces of the spawn of Eris, but Polemos hid from making war with me,” the king continued. “Their cries, Asterius! Have you heard them? Oh, the wails of Achos, they could split a man’s heart, suck the marrow from his bones and bleed his muscles dry until he’d forgotten his will to fight!”

Asterius found himself actually preferring to pass their walk hearing yet again of Theseus’ travels, instead of the eternal wailing of the goddess of grief described in detail. “This was when you descended into Hades? To retrieve a wife… for your friend?”

The bait was immediately swallowed. Theseus switched topics without pause. “It was by _principle_ , Asterius! The gods had taken Pirithous’ wife so soon after they were wed, but one son borne of her womb and then Thanatos’ slender hand had choked her with the babe still on her breast! Hades had spirited his beloved to the Underworld and in retribution Pirithous thought to take the Lord of the Dead’s own bride.”

Asterius snorted: a response for when he had nothing left to say. There were plenty of mortal women for a king to court, though if they were all like his human father and Theseus, of course they would not be satisfied unless they had plundered a heart from another man. It was more his concern that once again Theseus was wading into a labyrinth, this time of the cave’s tunnels. He was so certain the man would mention it, would crow some jubilant tale about how he’d conquered Daedalus’ creation and the beast within, all with but a spool of twine and his sword. It was a pleasant, but hesitant, surprise when Theseus said nothing of the sort. Perhaps the two didn’t even associate in the king’s mind. Or perhaps he’d been through enough excursions, the slaying of Crete’s bloodthirsty minotaur within the eternal labyrinth no longer sat at the forefront of his thoughts, as it did Asterius’.

Even if Theseus did not speak it, Asterius knew that labyrinths always held monsters. No friend hid themselves so far from the light, and no treasure would await without a punishment looming over it.

Theseus was excellent with his perception, Asterius had to admit. At each cross they would find, he would inspect it thoroughly, then carve an arrow into its wall directing back to the entrance. It awoke Asterius to the realization that so little of his life he had decided for himself. Theseus was a true king and champion: he commanded armies and ships and an entire city, whereas Asterius had been bridled after his birth and locked away. He could not trust himself with the same confidence Theseus had in spades for his own instincts.

“Grand, we are soon near the end!” his companion inexplicably announced. Asterius’ brow pinched in confusion, though Theseus offered up no explanation. “Wrathful Polemos, your tool of destruction shall befit you no longer!”

Shortly, he did see what Theseus meant. The cave walls were growing narrower, to where Asterius had to hunch and tilt his head to keep his horns from scraping the ceiling. They were funneled so tightly that their walk became single file. Theseus was in front of him, stooped and knocking loose rocks from their path with his spear, while Asterius was behind, bent as far as he could but the ceiling still scraped against his back. Finally, they came to a gap just large enough for Theseus to push through. He turned to look back at Asterius, gesturing to him, and the minotaur summoned the effort to shove his way through the rocks, emerging panting in a wide, cavern room.

The walls above them were high again, and ground water trickled down its slope to drip, slow and agonizing, one drop at a time, into a small pool in the far corner of the room. The sound caught Asterius’ attention first, but as he lifted his head to its full height again to look, he froze as Theseus had. Standing and watching them was not the primordial deity he would have thought to be Polemos, nor a pestle neither, but a tall, bronze-skinned woman with blonde hair cascading down her back. She wore a golden crown with points like the rays of the sun, a pressed white peplos brushed against her toes with a fine himation the color of blood layered atop it. Her belt was of hanging gold, and her rings and necklaces and bangles as well — even her face was lost in decoration, dangling gems hanging from her brows, and her nostrils pierced like a bull’s with fine chains hooked from her septum to her ears. A sight of gaudy beauty she would have been if not for the face behind the splendor: her eyes were so sunken and her irises so red, her flesh so taut veins could be seen running along it like rivers.

But most bold of her countenance was her smile. It shook Asterius immediately: it was too wide for her face, her teeth too bright.

“Well, my lady! I fear you are not the being Polemos I seek,” Theseus announced. He seemed to be taking this revelation in better stride than Asterius, though the minotaur noted he held his shield before him.

Oh, how Asterius’ entire body tensed as the woman reacted. Her head tilted so unnaturally to the side to be parallel with her shoulder and a bony hand combed back loose strands of blonde from her forehead. “Foolish, proud king…” she hissed, and it echoed against the walls of the room. “Wicked pride, wicked hunger!”

“Lady Hubris,” Theseus laughed. They had only eyes for each other: the being had not looked to Asterius at all, and, ironically, he felt so dwarfed by his companion’s side. “I had hoped to invite the pleasure of your husband, though you may do me the honor of succumbing to my spear!”

Hubris laughed back and her tone sounded so like Theseus that even the king’s eyebrows furrowed. But the noise mounted and pitched, louder and higher, until it filled the entire room and Asterius began to take trembling steps back towards the entrance. Theseus was pulled from his stupor and poised his spear to strike — but Hubris’ arms lashed out in front of her, cocooning a brilliant golden glow around herself that also licked through the space like primordial fire. In one moment, Asterius realized the deity had vanished completely. In the next, he realized the walls and ceiling were cracked, and silt was beginning to fall onto the rocks below.

“Damn it all!” Theseus shouted as the cave trembled.

“Take cover!” Asterius tried to command, but there was no time for either of them to move. The rubble collapsed upon them, massive rocks plummeting and exploding the air into a fog of dust. A pained bellow burst from him as a boulder slammed into his back and sent him pitching towards the ground. Somewhere near him, he heard Theseus’ scream like a dying god, but he could not bear to raise his head and look. The king had endured worse. His body was spiritual now and he could not die, but all Asterius could think of was him in life, the man who stood strong in all of Theseus’ noble tales, the one who had slain the minotaur then buried him to find him again.

The deafening noise of falling rocks slowed until only silence remained. Terrible, unnatural silence. His body ached and he could scent his own blood on the rubble around him — his tongue as well, for he’d bitten it in surprise. However he scarcely noticed his own pain as he raised his grand head, searching the collapsed room for the king. The dust was settling back towards the floor again, but even still, Theseus’ bright blond hair no longer stood majestically before him. Asterius’ breath quickened. Was he already deceased? With renewed effort he shoved himself up from the ground. “Theseus!” he called out to the destroyed room. His reddened fingers gripped boulders near him, tearing them from their seats as he searched, desperately, for a sign of dark mortal skin and white cloth.

And then it finally came: a moan, not five feet from him.

His back cried out as he pushed himself up to his feet, shaking the granite rubble from his shoulder blades. The heat of blood wet his snout but Asterius was warmed hotter by adrenaline as he charged to the sound’s side. He could see it now, the matted blond hair smeared across a rock’s face, and beneath it, the haunting expression of Theseus. The way he looked at him froze Asterius’ chest: his heart was long gone, but the sentiment remained. Theseus’ vibrant blue eyes were now so unfocused, lips parted, blood running down from his wreath like a martyr. Of which he was most assuredly not: this was so like him, brought to his knees by Hubris herself. His pride was a boyish thing… and yet, Asterius would admit to himself it was also quite admirable. There was no challenge Theseus did not believe he could rise above. Fear never became him, not weakness or hesitation. There was always a light that pursued him. And even now, his fortune still remained, as Asterius knew by the protective feeling that gripped his chest cavity he would not leave Theseus to suffer.

“Stay still, king,” he whispered to him. “I will have you free.”

Theseus’ next groan was even softer. Asterius was suddenly missing that brave voice of his.

He worked to lift what had collapsed atop him, grunting in exertion as he made short work of the cavern rocks that concealed Theseus’ body. The effort was automatic: he had scarcely thought of it, driven so heavy by instinct, by protection… the oddity of it only occurred to him partway through. He was a beast of burden who was stung by the maddening horseflies to rage, to devour, to destroy. Even his mother he had betrayed, and perhaps broken her heart worst of all. For so long his lips had never spoken the name she had given him, not until Theseus asked in the mist of Erebus what he was called. Asterius was called many things, but the birth name was the only one of which he’d never been deserving. He still didn’t know why he’d told Theseus the truth. Somehow, it filled him with some sort of feeling to hear the king shout it with such delight.

Finally, Theseus’ injured body lay prone before him. Asterius panted, but he gathered the man into his arms as delicately he could. Theseus’ noises were ones of pain and his muscles tight with agony, but he settled once Asterius held him close. A marvel: he cradled the human in his arms like nothing more than grains of wheat. Theseus was so light for what mortal mass he had and for the bravado with which he spoke. Of course Asterius knew Theseus was capable of dying, but he had never really thought it over; the image of some assailant extinguishing Theseus’ glory seemed so… incorrect.

“I have you,” he murmured down to Theseus, quite certain the man was beyond hearing. Yet the king’s eyes flickered open just briefly at his voice and Asterius’ throat clenched at the sight of them, like the sky looking back up into the night stars. They closed once again, and Theseus’ head lolled so his temple was pressed against Asterius’ chest. Then, almost inaudible—

“Thank you… Asterius.”

The minotaur let out a heavy, shaken breath. Hubris was Theseus’ mistress, without a doubt. Had the gods imbued him with a tragic flaw, beyond his fallen shawl of rage? The nervous thought twisted in his stomach: at Theseus’ his side, he would soon find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no answer for lost souls being emptied into Styx besides the fact I love the imagery from the Hercules movie. I also love Theseus and Pirithous’ boys’ trip into the Underworld that went wrong immediately, and then Theseus had be rescued by another himbo. Flashes of Theseus, Heracles, and Pirithous making that “We’re three cool dudes” invitation from Always Sunny.
> 
> Will be taking a little break from the whumptober prompts to fill a reader prompt as well as some of the Theseus/Asterius-related kink meme requests!
> 
> \- Thera is an active volcano on Crete.  
> \- Polemos did indeed have a mortar to crush civilizations in and sent Tumult looking for a pestle, but evidently in original myth never found one.  
> \- Hubris is featured only in "War and his Bride" in the collection of Aesop's Fables as Polemos' wife, as a warning that once men succumb to hubris, war will surely follow.


	5. day 5*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zagreus had never caught his attention quite like this before. The prince was far beneath him, metaphorically and literally. He’d been spit out by the bowels of Tartarus and moreover was the most uncouth and entitled being Theseus had ever met, quite the image of his father. Zagreus was so rough-faced compared to the youths of Athens. Or so Theseus had previously dismissed: seeing Zagreus over and over must have finally revealed the prince’s certain wolfish appeal, beckoned the mental image of how he’d look with his body bare and panting…
> 
> Prompt: An Aphrodite boon gone wrong

**aphrodite boon gone wrong  
**[ maybe fighting with boons that make opponents incredibly thirsty for your dick isn’t such a great idea ]

The Underworld Prince’s invasion into Elysium was an event now met with pomp.

Initially, when Hades had demanded his spawn be stopped, there was a titter about whether it was even _possible_ for Zagreus to reach Elysium. The Lord of the Dead’s House was buried deep within Tartarus. For his son come by Elysium, he would have to fight his way through the throes of Tartarus’ most damned, and then the fiery demons of Asphodel. Particularly for Theseus, who had attempted to descend into Hades, the idea was laughable. Zagreus was no Heracles, no hero who had the blood of Zeus twice over and stood in both Olympus and Hades with the confidence of a god. This Zagreus had been whelped and weaned in his House’s walls. He would learn quickly that his father’s realm was not so muzzled as his sanctuary.

And then it had happened. Zagreus had been spotted in the outer fields of Elysium, quickly shot down by the exalted, but there none the less. The heroes marveled at his strength. Tales spread and quickly exaggerated. Some said he wore a crown of flames, others that he bore armor made from the skulls of Cerberus. None could agree on whether he was seen fighting with a sword, bow, or spear. Many wondered if Zagreus would breach Elysium again. It was a feat when he in fact did, again and again, each appearance pushing closer to the center of Elysium where the halls of the heroes lay. The ferocity and determination that fueled him was a curiosity. What had broken within the young prince? Why now, did he confront miserable death without hesitation, to endure the entire fury of his father’s realm? And would it someday pass that Zagreus would conquer Elysium too?

Well — _that_ fateful day was behind them. Theseus with his companion Asterius had taken up the mantle to stand between Zagreus and Styx, and, ultimately, they had fallen. Zagreus was an unyielding combatant. More than that, what was clear from their fight was that Zagreus had the _gods_ on his side. Olympus rallied behind him, set to pull him from his birth realm to witness their seat in the heavens. Theseus had lived long enough not to question their divine boons: not even when Zagreus once came with the aid of _Poseidon_ did he consider it anything but the Olympians defying Hades.

Once, Theseus would have stood beside them. They still heeded his prayers, after all. But now circumstances were different, and Hades had bargained for his loyalty by agreeing that Asterius would be protected from the exalteds’ blades.

Besides, was it not the duty of a hero to keep the hellspawn where they belonged?

Now, when Zagreus was sighted within Elysium, it was a call to the arena. The stands filled with animated, prying spirits. Their ghastly cheers echoed around the stadium as Theseus and Asterius dressed in armor, stretched, flexed their blades as they awaited the arrival of their foe. On occasion, Asterius had encountered Zagreus earlier within the fields. Theseus noted that the minotaur bore a respect for the young god; Asterius’ veneration was not so easily won, and it had made Theseus both feel a pinprick of jealousy but also resolution to know that their opponent was ever a worthy one.

The roar of the crowd had already begun as the arena gates cracked open. The familiar sight of Zagreus emerged from between them: he looked husky, but somehow more bold than usual, his skin shining with sweat and his hair mussed. Today he was… primal.

“Look, Asterius, the accursed spawn of Tartarus has returned at last!” Theseus called. “Your foul presence soils Elysium, fiend. Again you shall meet our unified might and be thrown from the glorious fields of the heroes!” Even as he spoke, the words rolled like a script off his tongue — but his conviction faltered. He could not tear his eyes from Zagreus’ own; even from a distance, the sharp red and green were hypnotic, like twin predators who had seized Theseus in their grasp.

“Is that really a surprise at this point?” Zagreus asked. He bore the sword today, and he cocked his head as he spun the weapon in his hand. “Do either you have hobbies besides waiting for me to come visit? Not that I don’t appreciate this same song and dance, I just thought you’d have better things to do than be repeatedly humiliated in _Elysium_ of all places.”

“You infernal… creature,” Theseus mustered, but it was not rage that boiled up in him from Zagreus’ words. His tone was so melodic that Theseus had to remind himself to take offense. What was peculiar was that Zagreus had never caught his attention quite like this before. The prince was far beneath him, metaphorically and literally. He’d been spit out by the bowels of Tartarus and moreover was the most uncouth and entitled being Theseus had ever met, quite the image of his father. In both life and death, Theseus had been crowded by handsome men. Zagreus was so rough-faced compared to the youths of Athens. Or so Theseus had previously dismissed: seeing Zagreus over and over must have finally revealed the prince’s certain _wolfish_ appeal, beckoned the mental image of how he’d look with his body bare and panting…

Zagreus had actually paused during this, waiting for Theseus to continue his tirade — though it seemed that the king was done and was instead lost in thought. “Right, then. Not the most clever thing I’ve been called, but it’ll work.”

Theseus was indeed distracted, though now it occurred to him that his companion was being peculiarly quiet. His gaze flitted to Asterius, but to his surprise — and delight — the bull looked _enraptured_. It was an expression Theseus knew quite well. Asterius’ nostrils were flared and his chest heaved breaths like the air he shared with Zagreus was the first he’d ever tasted. The need was apparent in his tense stance; normally, Theseus would have reveled to be the sheath of Asterius’ aching sword, but heat was drawing a new, different image to his mind.

His head snapped back to Zagreus. “I propose a new contest,” Theseus found himself saying, and oh, how did he sound so lost in a dream? And inexplicably, it was one he was sharing with Asterius, so great was their bond! “You tire of facing us in combat, you say! Then you shall show your worth in different manner, oh prince of darkness!”

“I think I know where this is going,” Zagreus replied — and was there something taciturn in his voice? Not that it mattered. “You sure you don’t want to go somewhere more private? Does this place have a back room?”

“Hah, nonsense! The crowd has come to the arena to witness a most glorious triumph of their heroes. Asterius and I would never disappoint our fans.” He punctuated the statement by reaching up and patting the minotaur’s massive forearm.

The touch jolted Asterius from his reverie. Ever the more restrained, he snorted. “King, is this wise? What you propose is to disobey the prince’s father.”

“Ahh wisdom, that is not what I see reflected in your eyes, my friend! Come now, we will exhaust this mongrel’s strength with the combination of our own, and then Styx shall take him with its crimson currents back to the pits of Tartarus.”

Asterius had known the king long enough to read his gilded excuses. He cast the man a chary look, but his own resolve had crumbled. There was a base instinct Zagreus was rousing within him. In Elysium he had shacked himself with chains of self-restraint, of control and the bit his mortal father had tried to feed him upon his birth… but the fervor still churned deep within his gut, and now it cried not for blood but for something thicker. And the _look_ Zagreus offered the both of them in response to Theseus’ challenge! The young prince’s eyes were so bold, his jaw fixed. It was all too easy to imagine tearing those lips open in a shout as Asterius seized him, pinned him—…

The minotaur snorted again, a nonverbal agreement this time.

Theseus’ face split in a grin and he cast to the ground his spear and shield. There was a swagger in his walk as he approached Zagreus, a dare — but whatever ambrosia soaked Zagreus’ skin only heightened as Theseus neared him. How had he never noticed this before? That tantalizing cut of his robe across his chest and the muscular arm free of it, hoisting his sword at a tilt across his shoulder. Gods, even the shape of his jawline begged to be kissed, and how it flexed as he clenched his teeth… It muted the roar of the crowd around them and set his blood boiling in his breast. Let the eyes of the shades be cast upon the vulgarity he’d wreak to the prince. Let them quiver beneath the most fantastic battle the arena had ever witnessed. None who felt the king’s touch or tongue could ever forget the throes of ecstasy only he could bring.

“Goddess Aphrodite protect me,” Zagreus managed before Theseus was upon him.

The king’s hands clutched at his hips, punishing teeth immediately sinking into the skin of his throat. Zagreus’ moan was more one of surprise — not that he should have expected Theseus to be shy. The sudden cheers from the crowd were much more loud to him and he flushed hot. There was no way he could meet their gazes, especially not when the thunderous steps of Asterius followed Theseus to his side. The bull rounded him, and with a grunt he felt the bulk of Asterius pressed against his back. He choked high in his throat and Theseus chased the noise with open-mouthed kisses: there was a weight very present between the minotaur’s legs, the tip of it rubbing against the small of his back.

“Easy there, big guy. I’ve still got a ways to go.” The tremble in his voice must have been noticeable, for Theseus laughed against his pulse point.

“The surface holds no splendors that compare to Asterius’ cock,” Theseus sighed, brushing his lips across Zagreus’ sensitive skin.

That was knowledge Zagreus could have existed without, but as Asterius’ massive hands found their way to his chest and Theseus’ greedily roamed his sides, something began to awaken in him. His sword slipped to the ground and his body shook in a shaky sigh. Theseus had moved to straddle him and was lazily rolling his pelvis up against the prince’s. The movement made the shades feel distant now, as Zagreus’ consciousness was sandwiched between the heavy breaths of the man before him and the bull behind him. He reached out to grope for Theseus’ ass (flatter than he expected, he thought briefly as his fingers found it) and dragged the king closer against him, beginning to rock back wantingly against his body. He offered no resistance as Theseus reached behind him to uncinch his belt and then tossed it in the stone of the arena. Next came his sleeve, and Zagreus hastily pulled his arm free as Theseus pulled down the hem. Immediately Asterius was at his chest with fingers thumbing his exposed nipples, and Zagreus bit down at his bottom lip as a sudden jolt of heat flashed through him. He _moaned_ — how were they so _sensitive_? — and arched into the touch, pushing his ass against the heady attention of Asterius grinding against him.

Theseus was undressing him thoroughly. Every bare patch of skin exposed was seized by Asterius, the minotaur utterly merciless as he stroked his touch up and down Zagreus’ torso. And then the king came to loosening his pants, and he paused quite suddenly at Zagreus’ belongings clipped to his pack. The yarn of Ariadne swung there, among a satchel of obols and an ichor or some kind. Theseus’ eyebrows rose in surprise — he had not laid eyes upon the spool in years, though as it took it, it still felt at home in his hand — but his expression soon clouded into a darker look. “Asterius, I think a lesson is in order!” Theseus announced with renewed clarity as he began to unwind the thread. “Let us teach our foe the consequence of taunting his betters.”

“ _What?_ ” Zagreus started, but the word was lost in a moan as Asterius pinched his nipple and his hips stuttered in response. The minotaur’s cock twitched hard against his back, and for a moment Zagreus had half a mind to beg.

With Zagreus’ own sword, Theseus cut a long line of the thread free and handed it up to Asterius. The minotaur relinquished his touch and brushed his snout in close to Zagreus’s ear: “Arms behind your back, short prince,” he commanded lowly. A shiver darted down Zagreus’ spine and he had no intention of disobeying. He folded both of his arms backwards in the very moment Theseus had shimmied down his pants and dropped to his knees before him. The king’s lips could not find Zagreus’ cock fast enough. It was not yet fully hard, which only served to heighten Theseus’ determination. He took Zagreus in hand, thumb playing with the slit as his tongue began to lap around his base. The sharp exhale above him and the way Zagreus’ hips twitched into his touch was more delicious than any victory.

Zagreus looked down at him, to where Theseus was gazing back up with hazy, contented eyes. The sight of the hero’s pink tongue running against his length of his member had him transfixed. Theseus’ gaze did not waver as his plump lips parted into a bow and he took Zagreus onto his tongue. Immediately Zagreus was hardening in the other man’s mouth, heat blooming through his body which made the way Asterius gripped his arms to hold him still pure agony. The minotaur was looping the thread repeatedly around his wrists. The knot was then tied tight, and the yarn dug into his skin as he writhed against his bonds, craving to grab Theseus’ skull as the king teased him with feather-light licks.

“I — _ah_ — must have missed this part of the story.” At least his tongue had not yet failed him.

He could feel Theseus’ laugh against his member and Asterius’ rumble against his back, the minotaur’s hot breath on places he hadn’t even know he’d wanted. At least they could find humor in it as well, though this also did absolutely confirm his suspicion that Theseus’ adoration of Asterius was not so fraternal in nature. Maybe Ariadne really was none the wiser. His thoughts were snapped away as Theseus indulged himself completely, his tongue swirling around the crown of Zagreus’ cock and then pushed deeper, inch by inch his lips stretching as he pushed himself to the base. Zagreus could not maintain any semblance of pride. His eyes fluttered as obscenities poured out of him, shaking fruitlessly against where Asterius held him in place. One Zagreus’ cock had vanished sunk completely within Theseus’ hollowed cheeks, the king moaned, and the noise sent hot sparks shooting through Zagreus’ thighs.

It had dimmed the jostling noise behind him but shortly Zagreus realized that Asterius’ clothes were being shucked to the ground. The sudden, slick finger nudging between his ass cheeks was also a good indication. His stance widened in a silent plea. Asterius obliged him. The whine that Zagreus made as Asterius’ finger breached him was not a noise he’d have recognized from himself. The prince sagged forward and felt Theseus’ hands clutching the back of his thighs to steady him. Even just Asterius’ digit was _large_. The tip of it brushed against Zagreus’ prostate and he jolted immediately, his back bowing as he staggered forward into the tantalizing heat of Theseus’ mouth. Asterius’ finger slid out of him with an utterly lewd wet noise, and then he pushed back in with two of them.

“Ohh fuck, yes,” Zagreus babbled, and he had to clench his jaw shut to keep from moaning the minotaur’s name. His cock was weeping in Theseus’ mouth and the king lavished it, letting it slip from his lips and rubbing its head and the mix of saliva and precum against his cheek. A ragged noise tore from Zagreus’ chest and his fingers flexed around the rope. The look Theseus gave him was so utterly smug before Zagreus’ cock vanished back between his lips again.

Asterius’ breath was upon his shoulder, the hot air making Zagreus shiver. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Zagreus sputtered back without hesitation. “ _Yes_ , I am ready.”

As Asterius slid inside of him, Zagreus’ head snapped up to meet the gazes of the shades, all locked upon him. He legs trembled beneath their stares: he was prince of the Underworld, challenger of Hades and his realm, now flushed completely and trapped between the champions of Elysium. The Furies and the Hydra bore no audience, but that did not become Theseus. The hero had not hesitated in sucking him off before the crowd and Zagreus was split between the humiliation and the utter eroticism of it. Asterius’ first press made him tense up: he twisted against the pressure splitting him open, but Asterius’ arm wrapped about his waist to hold him. The minotaur’s dick was as hard as a rod and sweat had begun to run down his brow. Soon enough Asterius was sheathed completely within him, and Zagreus’ jaw lolled open at the sensation.

“Larger than I expected, somehow.”

The lack of reply made him realize that the bull’s patience had worn thin. Asterius was utterly insatiable within him; his body tilted over Zagreus’ and he clutched the prince like he was in heat, scarcely able to keep himself still as Zagreus adjusted to the girth. The sight had done something to Theseus as well: the king’s pupils were blown, and he released Zagreus’ cock with a wet _pop_ , tongue licking at the saliva that slavered from his lips.

“And how does it feel, Zagreus?” he asked. Zagreus was a _sight_ : soft marks had begun to form on his neck where Theseus teased, and his skin was pinkened from his face down to his stiff cock. The beautiful curves of his abdominals were sweat-shiny and panting — but most glorious of all was his expression, his eyes distant and his lips parted, a litany of fervent noises trailing out from them. “To be filled by the Bull of Minos, before the raging crowd of Elysium!”

“I’ll get back to you in a, a m- _moment_.” Zagreus gasped as Asterius began to move and the feeling made him _keen_ , fingers desperately gripping at nothing but the air. His own cock was stiff and exposed against his stomach, but it was awfully hard to think about anything else than the ache of Asterius pushing inside of him.

“No words, blackguard?” While Theseus seemed far more interested in talking, blessedly the king’s hand found its way back to his member. Zagreus panted as Theseus’ fingers wrapped around it such that he pumped through Theseus’ fist with each of Asterius’ thrusts. “Then I shall speak for you. Look at how you give yourself to him. You’re so tight around him Zagreus, as though your body was molded to sheath his cock. If only you could see yourself! Listen to how the audience cheers for you!”

With a flourish of Theseus’ free hand, the crowd did ripple with applause. Their clamor reached a crescendo as Zagreus shouted in ecstasy; Asterius had shifted his hips, pushing unyielding against his prostate. Lust surged Zagreus and in the moment, he didn’t care how many people saw him. All of the Underworld could have been invited to witness if only Asterius would not stop, not stop stretching him, not stop sending sparks shooting beneath his skin with each time his massive cock re-entered him. Mewling noises that he wasn’t even conscious he was making chanted from his lips like a woeful prayer. Theseus’ grip was tight around him even as he sagged his weight against Asterius, and his eyes fluttered closed to submerge himself blissful darkness of pleasure.

“Yes, yes, _yes_.”

His breath was stained with pleas that there was no indication either of the Elysian men heard. Asterius was primal, great grunts quaking his muscular, sweaty body as he pounded into Zagreus with abandon. His tongue rolled out to lick across the prince’s salty shoulders possessively; the temptation to bore Zagreus’ tender skin with his teeth burned in him, but he restrained, satisfying himself to run the length of his jaw against him instead. Marking him. Consuming him so completely that even the waters of Styx would never be able to wash him out.

The minotaur orgasmed with a bellow and Zagreus shouted as Asterius’ seed filled him, milking himself against his walls and drowning Zagreus in its warmth. He was teetering close; Theseus’ touch had gone slack against him, and he jerked his hips with more urgency as Asterius began soften.

“You think you can finish, do you?” Theseus crowed; Zagreus had never hated his voice more than in this moment. A shout tore from him as Theseus released him entirely. Zagreus’ eyes flashed open, rage and desperation combined. “You should know a mongrel never comes before his king. Lay him down, Asterius, keep him bound.”

“Asterius, no—” Zagreus begged, sheerly instinctive, even knowing the minotaur’s loyalty lay elsewhere. Asterius slipped free of him, warm cum pooling out his ass. It was all he could do to not think about how he looked. He felt utterly ragged and frayed, his body sore already, and his climax now easing down back into tantalizing warmth. He was pliant as Asterius leaned him down off his feet. His legs had begun to tremble and could not have held his weight alone; Zagreus groaned as the minotaur eased down with him, propping the prince’s chest against his own while leaving his legs splayed and his hard cock flagging.

He had only begun to catch his breath when it became clear what Theseus intended to do. The king was straddling him, touching him just enough to give his member a few pumps. This was not what Zagreus had envisioned when he’d first considered Theseus and the minotaur beings of legend. Of course, it made sense that Athenian king would always make a name for himself.

His head lifted just a fraction off Asterius’ chest. “I should have guessed you’d enjoy bull riding.”

Theseus’ mouth thinned as his body hovered above Zagreus’ pelvis. “Managed to find your tongue again, did you? I’ll see to that.” The prince’s mouth opened to quip, but in that moment, Theseus had lined Zagreus’ member to his entrance. He sank down on Zagreus’ cock, his blond head snapping back in ecstasy as he surrendered to temptation and took Zagreus to the hilt.

Zagreus swore. His hips canted up to meet Theseus as his body sagged back against Asterius’ bulk. It a second his orgasm is back and pressing, and he squirms with sensitivity as Theseus clenches around him, that bastard. The king was looking down upon him with hooded eyes; for all his waning opinions of Theseus, Zagreus had to admit he did look more handsome with his lips swollen and his hair slick with sweat. Of course, the fact his cock was deep and twitching inside of him may have swayed Zagreus’ opinion as well — or not, as for a moment all Theseus did was shift his hips tantalizingly as he stroked his own dick, ignoring Zagreus’ urgent thrusts upwards. His length was not so impressive as Asterius’, but clearly either sucking cock or watching Asterius mount him had appealed to him. Reflexively, Zagreus’ tongue slid over his lip as Theseus grew harder in front of him with quick strokes.

“Still feeling good enough to talk,” he commented, but breathless. “If you’re taking feedback on that.”

This time Theseus snorted. Asterius must have been rubbing off on him.

…

Yeah, he’d stick with that phrasing.

Blessedly, Theseus finally complied, bracing one hand against Zagreus’ chest and the other against his thigh as he began to rock his body. A moan swelled from deep in Zagreus’ core. He presses his eyes shut because he can’t even grab Theseus, pull him down deeper into his lap. It’s slow and it’s hot, Theseus’ rhythm so steady and dragging his cock before snapping back down. As if not content in the torture, Asterius began to fondle his chest, flicking his nipples until Zagreus is properly squirming. The crowd _loved_ Theseus, apparently, and one of them even gave a sharp whistle that had Zagreus slamming his head back against Asterius’ chest in frustration. After having been edged, his climax was so damn close, and he jerked his pelvis up into Theseus in shallow, desperate thrusts.

“Not yet,” Asterius murmured against him, which in addition to being frustrating was also quite unhelpful when combined with the way the minotaur was teasing his hard nipples. “Do not cum, Zagreus. Not until the king commands.”

A pained groan escaped him. Theseus’ pace was escalating and judging by the king’s quick pants and his lack of commentary, he was close as well. A sudden whine had Zagreus’ eyes flashing up to Theseus’ face. Theseus was staring at him with the intensity of a ragged predator as he jerked his own cock — and his back arched as he came, cum spurting to splatter across Zagreus’ heaving chest. The eye contact did not falter as his orgasm subsided. Had Zagreus not been so desperate, his nerves so frayed, he would have told Theseus just what he thought of that cocky blue stare. Instead, he was ashamed to admit he was internally begging to hear Theseus’ voice again.

It finally came, just as grating as he feared it would be. “Not so proud now are you, I see! Have you yet learned to beg?”

Zagreus’ lips parted to take a few steadying breaths. Asterius’ hands had slipped from his body if just to punctuate the point. Soon this would be over, he was so, so close to release. “Please, King Theseus. I beg of you.”

Life sparked in Theseus’ face. “And what do you beg for, fiend? What could an accursed soul like yourself possibly crave from me?”

“Please let me cum. Please let me come inside of you, please, I need it.”

“Impressive,” the man declared. “So we have taught you well! Asterius, release him from his bonds and we shall give this foul cretin the depravity he desires.”

As soon as Asterius had cut the thread, Zagreus’ hands flashed out, his nails sinking into Theseus’ bare hips. His wrists were sore from their restraints but there was nothing on his mind now besides pursuing what he’d been denied before Theseus changed his mind. Zagreus thrust up into him in a punishing pace — and gods there was satisfaction in hearing the guttural noises Theseus made, the way the man screwed his eyes shut in post-coital sensitivity as he bounced on Zagreus’ lap. There was none to blame but himself, and Zagreus felt no pity as he finally drove himself upwards deep and hard, shouting as the heat spiked within his gut. His hips continued to stutter as the heat washed over him and subsided, finally, leaving him boneless and in cold awareness he was naked in the middle of the Elysian arena.

Nudges of his leg encouraged Theseus to pull himself from his lap. Predictably the man collapsed in a lazy heap beside Asterius; the minotaur was a more giving companion as he attempted to stroke down Zagreus’ messy hair, but Zagreus shook him off to sit up instead. His clothes were discarded alone the stone and he dressed quickly. There was little to be done about the spunk on his chest and thighs, but he wiped it off on his hand and then smeared it on the floor. Elysium ought to have people for that. Heaving his sword back over his shoulder, Zagreus tilted his head back to the arena champions.

“Gentlemen,” he said stiffly, and then turned to exit the arena through the opposite, opening doors, attempting to ignore the cheers and whistles of the crowd around him. Aphrodite’s boon was being washed off in the fountain before Styx. The goddess’ promise that his foes would be too charmed to fight him had not fared him any better than getting hacked to pieces. Honestly, after enduring the images that were now permanently seared into his memory, he missed the bloodshed.

After he was gone and the doors shut behind him, Theseus sighed languidly. “Victory in defeat,” he declared, leaning against Asterius’ arm. No matter, Zagreus would be back again soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fill for the kinkmeme, and oh my god I really didn't think I'd finish this by midnight! I'll probably go through this and edit it at a future time. Just sweet, sweet PWP, this doesn't fit within the canon of the universe but I wanted to include it as a chapter within this fic because it's part of my daily Theseus and Asterius writing. Tomorrow we'll be back with our regularly scheduled material, either a reader prompt or, if this behemoth of PWP has worn me out for a day, a short drabble for the Whumptober prompts so I can put my all into the prompts readers give me! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading as always!


	6. day 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erebus typically was not a land cruel or kind: it simply was, which was a mentality Asterius appreciated deeply. For all the grandeur Theseus spun to him, Erebus seemed more his calling than anywhere else. The Elysian Fields, certainly, were a taste too rich for his palette, and the ashy meadows of Asphodel were but a home for mortal regret. Many of Asphodel tasted the river Lethe, Theseus advised, to forget their longing and hope to be reborn. Asterius neither wished for another life nor to forget the one he’d already lived. There was tranquility in simply walking the penumbra of the afterlife.
> 
> Prompt: Support

**i’ve got you  
** [ support | carrying | enemy to caretaker ]

Erebus typically was not a land cruel or kind: it simply was, which was a mentality Asterius appreciated deeply. For all the grandeur Theseus spun to him, Erebus seemed more his calling than anywhere else. The Elysian Fields, certainly, were a taste too rich for his palette, and the ashy meadows of Asphodel were but a home for mortal regret. Many of Asphodel tasted the river Lethe, Theseus advised, to forget their longing and hope to be reborn. Asterius neither wished for another life nor to forget the one he’d already lived. There was tranquility in simply walking the penumbra of the afterlife. Erebus was both the fluid darkness of its godly patron and the light from the surface world that trickled over its walls. It housed both youthful souls who waited on the banks of Styx with obols tight in their hands as well as those who were fated to never leave, driven either to madness or contentment by eternity, forever downed in the memories of their singular life.

It was as mortal men made it, after they were stripped of all their earthly inheritance. And thus, it just was.

However, on occasion, the balance of Erebus would be shifted by either the lands above or the lands below. When Zeus punished the battlefield for the death of Sarpedon, the crimson rain seeped through the ground and showered Erebus as well. The fresh spirits of the War had shouted their voices aloft and cursed every name imaginable for the dreaded loss; in that time before they crossed Styx, Erebus was both brightened with the surface’s longing and reddened with battle, until it subsided as things always did, and the sons had passed to Elysium and Asphodel. Less often came the influence from the deep. Once when Erebus shook with tremor and tremor, a faceless shade had told Asterius that it was surely Iapetus who would awaken and attempt to pierce Tartarus with his majestic spear and rouse his children, the mortals, to rebellion. Whatever truth that had, Asterius could not say. The stories of the gods and their predecessors had never interested him.

Though such incidents were few and far between. It was thus a surprise when one day the pitch dark skies of Erebus crackled with red streaks that burned away the shadows. Winds bellowed in opposing directions and the earth did not shake like before, but with strikes of flaming lightning it _fractured_ , creating deep crevices that split Erebus so deep it seemed the depths of Tartarus reached up from them.

(Asterius would later learn this was the first time Zagreus the prince had absconded from the House of Hades. It would be some time before the boy broke free of Tartarus, but the mere act had set his father’s rage shaking through the realm.)

The inexplicable nature of it had whipped the spirits into a frenzy. They coursed across Erebus like forces of nature themselves, some gathered together into a mob akin to the whirlpools of Styx. Tisiphone and Alecto lashed them apart and left them crumpled across the fragmented landscape. Every one of Asterius’ nerves lit with panic to avoid the disaster until it calmed, like all things in Erebus did. The way the Furies corralled the shades and the scarred, bloody arms of the Hysminai pursued them — it reminded Asterius of the way he was herded like a beast in life.

It was not cowardice to admit he was afraid. With his shawl pulled tight over his shoulders, he had stumbled away from where the Erinyes’ cackles echoed in blind pursuit of peace and quiet. Fire licked down from the sky on the horizon but in the moment, he was _safe_ , _alone_. How ironic that he now craved a labyrinth in which to hide himself from the prying of the after-world, when in life all he had desired was freedom.

But if there was some god or force determined to lay ruin to all of Erebus, they accomplished it well. Bright, flaming lightning dove through the air and crashed into the cold floor of Erebus near his boots. Asterius bellowed in surprise as the earth shattered beneath that infernal touch. Its shake stumbled him and he fell, leg trapped unnaturally beneath him, and gods — terrible, hot pain blossomed through his joint as he collapsed atop it. His voice ripped free into a _scream_ he had never heard from a creature like himself (or had he, once? The murder in Theseus’ eyes as the sword found its mark—). There was no moment to tend to it. The black stones beneath him were now crumbling away to plummet into Tartarus under the force of the ragged wind. Asterius’ fingernails scraped at the ground and he heaved himself through the blistering _agony_ back to his feet. His first step made his knee collapse and he crashed back to the ground — but then he was up again, driven by survivalist fervor, stumbling away from the crevice that had formed behind him.

Only when the ground had calmed beneath him did he dare to turn about; the lightning had receded, leaving a yawning chasm in its wake. Asterius panted in pain and disbelief. He could have easily sunk through whatever portal the fire had created: a land surely worse than Erebus, as the unconsciousness of death was not a possibility in Hades. Unfortunately, injury and suffering were still very present. His leg was shaking beneath him even with all his weight shifted to the other. Asterius clenched his bull teeth, slowly easing himself down into a sit and wincing as he was forced to bend his knee. As his rear thumped to the ground, he gave a long, strained moan that evaporated into the clamor of ruined Erebus.

It was shameful (and peculiar) to admit pain was not becoming of him. No mortal had been able to truly injure him, not before Theseus. It was… an isolating feeling. For all his life, Asterius had relied solely upon his horns and his own two feet. Without them, who was he? There was no rest for a wicked beast. The moment he rested his weary head, they would be upon him, the hounds that were man’s greed for valor.

“Asterius!” Ironically, a familiar voice cut through the din. Asterius lifted his head to see Theseus striding towards him, brandishing his spear and shield like a keres of the battlefield, his tunic billowing in the storm. The man’s face was troubled, and before he had even reached Asterius’ side he was shouting: “What madness has gripped this place? Has the blood of Chaos seized lord Erebus at last?”

Asterius exhaled a tense breath. The sight of Theseus was not always… terrible, but in the moment, he only wished to hide himself away like a wounded animal. The king only sought him when he desired something: a spar most often, or, like two times ago now, when Theseus had pulled him into the fruitless endeavor of confronting the god of battle. And normally, Asterius could have indulged his exclamations of piety, but the throbbing pain made it difficult to even form a reply. He shook his head through it. “I do not know. I have never seen the skies like this before. How is Elysium?”

Theseus frowned deeper, contemplating, as he came to stand above Asterius. “The exalted did gather their divine spears to line the edge of the Fields… Hmph, I did not think on it. None could ever penetrate the depths of star-sewn Okeanos.”

“As you say,” Asterius huffed. This conversation had already gone on too long. “You should leave, you shall be safer there.”

Unfortunately, the man caught the wince in his voice. Theseus’ eyes snapped wide. “They’ve injured you!” he exclaimed as he dropped to a knee beside Asterius’ body. “Who dared to strike you? If it was the Furies, I swear to you, I shall stake them for the honor of us both!”

“No,” he replied quickly. The last thing this commotion needed was Theseus getting wrapped up in some quest for vengeance. His hatred for the Furies was such a defining trait of his: he set after them with the slightest excuse, and part of Asterius’ duty at this point was talking him down before he got himself thrashed and hung from the walls again. Or worse, he tried not to think. “The lightning, it opened up above me. I’ve only fallen. It will be alright.”

Even as he spoke, it was apparent Theseus was not convinced. His attention had been drawn to Asterius’ awkwardly positioned leg and he reached out to _touch_ it, soft fingers skirting over Asterius’ skin. The minotaur flinched beneath him as he always did; it seemed he’d never adjust to how physical the man was, not after a lifetime of neglect, not for the hands of his murderer. Then Theseus came to his knee and the pain was suddenly fresh once more, licking through his entire body like the lightning itself. Asterius had not even realized he was screaming at first, and he bit it back when he caught sight of Theseus’ stunned expression. 

After a moment of silence, the man spoke, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “You need shelter.”

“I am fine.”

“This is no superficial spar wound, Asterius, you cannot stand! And I will be damned if the hysteria of Erebus bleeds away your mighty strength and takes from me my greatest rival.”

Theseus never tired of talking about his strength and their rivalry. Asterius smothered a groan, though this one was not from pain. “Fine. If you will return to Elysium afterwards.”

That grin was back. “I swear it, my friend! Come, let us get you to your feet! Your hooves? No matter…”

Asterius grunted out a soft “Feet”, not that it mattered. Theseus had rounded him and was assisting him to his feet; Asterius tried to ignore the feeling of both of Theseus’ hands upon him in favor of the anguish that ripped through him as he was forced to bend his knee. By the time he stood upright again, he was shaking and heavy with pants, unbidden tears having jumped to his dark eyes. The wind stung them and he attempted to blink them away before Theseus could see. Unfortunately, he did have to admit the king was right: with the frenzy of Erebus having not slowed, he could easily be swallowed beneath its surface if the flames struck again. And in good conscience he could not leave himself prone to the Furies and offer Theseus another reason to seek their bones.

He ground his teeth as he tried to take a staggering hop forward, but Theseus suddenly gripped his arm to stop him. The smaller man could not have held him down even if he tried with all his might — but the abruptness of it made Asterius freeze.

“Hold, Asterius,” Theseus was saying. “Lean upon me, I shall be your guide.”

Asterius’ head snapped to him to drink in his expression: unflinching, as he always was, so heroic as the gods had made him. Perhaps it was his imagination or the searing pain, but that smile no longer seemed so lordly. There was a touch of kindness, of encouragement within it. And beneath his stare — Theseus must have taken his silence as stubbornness, for his expression softened further.

“I have you,” the king’s voice whispered. Asterius chest’s clenched. It was what he had said to Theseus before, when he had not even been certain the man was conscious or could hear him. The only time he had heard Theseus express gratitude. The only time he had touched Theseus himself, without hesitation, without concern.

Asterius yielded.

Mutely he nodded his head and lifted his arm so Theseus could duck underneath. The man was short, but for a mortal not so slender, and he did not budge as Asterius sagged into him. This time the stepped was still painful but not so searing; Asterius squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and immediately regretted it as Theseus’ hand squeezed him reassuringly. He could not bear the burden of pity. It was mystifying as to why Theseus was so obsessed with their rivalry (Asterius would admit he could best the king on occasion, but surely there were others in Elysium who posed a better challenge), but far more confusing was how the man had seamlessly begun to call him his friend and lavish him with praise. Theseus was unreadable. Sometimes, like now, Asterius was certain there lay something deeper beneath his bravado. Other times, he was even more sure it was all in his head.

They walked in mostly silence with Theseus sometimes prodding him with encouraging words. The frenzy around them both felt so far away: though his touch was unsettling, there was a golden protection that seemed to come with it, that drove away the crazed spirits and even the lightning of a god. He was born of them, Asterius reminded himself. That was all it was. It was all too easy to fall into the brightness the king exuded. But Asterius was certain that Theseus would be ever seeking his glory: and once his thirst for proving his mettle against his foe in life faded, Asterius would be alone in Erebus once more.

How it should be.

Gradually, they drew closer to a small overhanging, like a pustule in Erebus’ rocky landscape. “There!” Theseus had announced. “That shall grant us shelter from the storm and the flames, until this damned tantrum comes to rest.” Even the short walk had exhausted Asterius so deeply that all he could do was pant in response, though he took note that Theseus had pointedly said _we_ , despite his promise to depart immediately. It wasn’t worth burning through his energy to remind him, Asterius decided. Theseus guided him within the cavity and helped him ease down at the back of it. Finally reposed, he tilted his head back against the cold stone and breathed a long, shaking sigh. The wounds of souls healed faster than mortal ones, he had come to learn, but he was certain they hurt no less than ones of flesh. Or perhaps in his short and destructive life, he had only gauged the pain of others and imagined it less than it truly was.

“Rest, my friend,” Theseus said to him. Curiously, he had put a respectful distance between them and had settled down near the cave’s entrance. “I will keep watch and fend the wicked inhabitants of this realm from your bedside!”

 _You said you would leave_ , the words formed in Asterius’ mind, but he could not force them off his tongue. “Thank you,” was what he grunted instead; and he shouldn’t have, for it bore warm shame in his cheeks, and he looked away immediately. Theseus’ was like ritual bells but the he did not reply, and slowly a silence settled in between them.

Asterius pretended to rest. And yet — after a moment, some foreign temptation boiled in him, and he cracked an eye to steal a glance at Theseus. The man’s back was to him, though the storm’s wind blew through his hair, sending olive leaves trembling amidst fields of rippling gold. The thought came unbidden as Asterius closed his eyes again: for the first time, Theseus truly did look like a king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof yesterday did wear me out, so a shorter ficlet for a Whumptober prompt today! Thanks everyone for bearing with me. :) I love writing both Asterius and Theseus' POVs, I think I might try to overlap some of these moments or memories in future chapters so that both perspectives can be seen.
> 
> Tomorrow I'm diverging to do a reader prompt which is super exciting! I love writing for these two, if anyone has any prompt requests please don't be shy about saying so... I've got a whole month to fill, whew!
> 
> \- Sarpedon was the son of Zeus who was slain by Patroculus wearing Achilles' armor. Zeus wanted to save his life even though Sarpedon was fated to die to Patroclus; Hera persuaded him not to intervene, as many other gods' children were dying on the battlefield. After Sarpedon's death, Zeus made it rain blood.  
> \- Iapetus was a Titan aligned with Cronus who was cast down into Tartarus. He's considered the Titan of mortality, and his children's children were the first humans, who inherited the flaws of their ancestor.  
> \- The Hysminai are nasty little daughters of Eris! They're the spirits of fighting, but more like fist-fighting/street fights and not battle.  
> \- Erebus is the primordial son of Chaos who exists as the patron of darkness and shadow, as well as the realm where deceased spirits first awaken.


	7. day 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed that time passed differently among the gods, and was more akin to how mortals' days felt in the afterlife. In Erebus, the foggy tides gave no end to one’s wandering; in Elysium, the glorious rounds of sparring and feasting without pause were the same. It was peculiar to not have the lighting and dimming of the heavens to guide oneself. Thus in a way, Theseus had come to not mind his summons to soften prince Zagreus along his pursuit to Olympus. It gave a rhythm to his existence that he had not known he craved, even in paradise. To die was to sleep, and to relive was to awaken. Zagreus had somehow become the lord of time in his Titan ancestor’s place: the cut of a blade into the wine-drunk bliss of Elysium.
> 
> Prompt: Extreme Measures armor

**pact of punishment  
**[ first time getting the new armor from extreme measures ]

It was redundant to say Hades was not known for his kindness.

Theseus never liked the idea that he was in his _employ_ , but rather than he owed Hades a debt that had become eternal, and many things within the Underworld did. It seemed that time passed differently among the gods, and was more akin to how mortals' days felt in the afterlife. In Erebus, the foggy tides gave no end to one’s wandering; in Elysium, the glorious rounds of sparring and feasting without pause were the same. It was peculiar to not have the lighting and dimming of the heavens to guide oneself. Thus in a way, Theseus had come to not mind his summons to soften prince Zagreus along his pursuit to Olympus. It gave a rhythm to his existence that he had not known he craved, even in paradise. To die was to sleep, and to relive was to awaken. Zagreus had somehow become the lord of time in his Titan ancestor’s place: the cut of a blade into the wine-drunk bliss of Elysium.

Surely such feelings would pale if he drank from Lethe as other heroes had done — but the notion disturbed him. They had assured him again and again he would not forget his glory. But what if they did not define glory as he did? What if his triumphant memories felt less golden without the pain to compare them aside? What if, worst of all, the name King Theseus became but a shadow to him, a title that he wore like an actor?

It was those fears he buried deep within himself, as he did any other horrible doubts. Asterius alone had a way of reading those feelings in him — not that Theseus would even cough them up willingly. If his companion did ever wonder why Theseus was so starved for the arena’s challenge and took such heart in driving Zagreus back to Tartarus… well, he had not yet asked upon it. Theseus knew he’d have some proper response if he ever did. That was what he’d always been: the brilliant sun, burning away the hollowed moon.

It all drew back to the point that Theseus never expected _gratitude_ from the Lord of the Dead; after all, if Hades was the one the judge the souls of Erebus, Theseus likely would have been dragged to Tartarus for his crime of assisting Pirithous. There was no _relationship_ with Hades but merely a tenuous alignment with him. Predictably, Asterius treated that pact with more severity than Theseus. Which was ironic considering Asterius was not bidden into Hades’ service: it was of his own volition he would seek the fields for Zagreus before the prince arrived to the arena, and by his own will still that he fought alongside Theseus in battle. It had only deepened that bond Theseus felt drawn so thickly between them both.

 _Why do you seek him, Asterius? Do you desire so much to steal my victory from me?_ Theseus had asked once; sardonic, but prodding and desperate to know none the less.

 _Only to ensure he’s deserving, king._ The bull had snorted. _To come to the arena as anything less is not worth your time._

They had left it at that, though it did not explain why Asterius needed Zagreus to prove his mettle so many times, not when Zagreus’ skills had rapidly surpassed their own. Once, a flicker of doubt had made its way through Theseus’ head. Perhaps he was no longer strong enough for Asterius to consider him a friend and rival. He’d fought with such tenacity that time — and succumbed to the face of Zagreus’ shield regardless, though when he awoke Asterius was straightening his garments so dutifully that Theseus vowed to cast the thought from his mind.

(But it was not the first time he’d broken a vow, even to himself.)

No matter the outcomes, he and Asterius must have pleased Lord Hades somewhat, for Daedalus in his workshop informed him that they were being rewarded with custom armor — both him and Asterius as well. The promise of a prize always lit a fire in Theseus, and to hear of Asterius’ recognition in Elysium by Hades was no small reward, either. Despite their association before, Daedalus was resistant to letting Theseus’ prying eyes look upon it before it was completed.

Theseus’ delight had reached new heights in the days that Daedalus worked.

 _The pinnacle of our greatness, Asterius! Conceived by Hades and crafted by the great Daedalus, we shall wear these gifts with honor and trounce once again our wretched foes with the metal of our combined strength!_

Contrary to Theseus’ enthusiasm, Asterius made it clear in his nonverbal way that this did not sit well with him. The minotaur was uncharacteristically quiet about the development; he’d even once suggested that he was not deserving of the gift, and Theseus alone should accept, though the king rejected this immediately. He’d clapped Asterius upon the back and declared that they would always walk together: both of them had pleased Lord Hades, and both of them would accept the spoils. The matter was not discussed again.

There was no point in asking and dredging up those feelings, though Theseus suspected it was an old grudge rather than modesty that made Asterius hesitate. He recalled all too well how Asterius had slowly warmed to him. It was as though Theseus had waded into the labyrinth once again, and this time he was taking its prisoner with him, through the slow and arduous walk back to the entrance and out to the open world. It was undeniable that Daedalus was the greatest craftsman Elysium had ever witnessed. The labyrinth was a masterpiece that not even during years of stay could Asterius unravel; of course he could not appreciate its creation, but Theseus wished he could see its creator was simply at the behest of the king. Asterius was deceptively complex in his emotions — though not as stubborn as Theseus had first suspected. And this gift was not only a gratitude for Asterius’ might and his victories: to be downed in the armor of Daedalus was another step towards embracing Elysium. If Asterius felt this was his home, Theseus would never have to worry that he’d want to leave. The idea seemed ridiculous… but if there was a man who could reject paradise, it was Asterius.

When Daedalus had completed their rewards, he presented them to them both in the arena.

“For you both,” the man said. He looked younger than Theseus remembered him in life. His hair had only begun to grey at its edges and his face was fresher, but his eyes remained just as they always were: bright and bold, as though his soul had never forgotten his heritage as a prince of Athens. “A gift, from the Lord Hades.”

It was more than a simple gift. To the craftsman’s side were sets of polished golden armor, one of them a massive helm with a stately blue plume, which leaned upon the most grandiose chariot Theseus had ever seen. Its front was molded to the face of a ker with wings at its cheeks and its wheels had gleaming rubies studded to the lips. Most oddly, a contraption was hooked to its rear that purred with life and exhaled smoke from its pipe like a chimney.

Theseus was rounding the chariot immediately, inspecting its splendor. “Made in the image of the golden chariot of Hades!” Theseus exclaimed, though then he paused, his brow furrowing. “But where are its steeds?” Surely Daedalus would not disrespect Asterius so, would he?

“The Macedonian Tau-Lambda,” Daedalus began. The Argeads, sons of Heracles. “It needs none. Come, my king.”

No invitation was needed. Theseus mounted the chariot as he had mounted many before; its weight was well-distributed despite the fact it lacked horses hitched to its front. Out of curiosity, he leaned against its front — and immediately the Tau-Lambda rolled forward to follow his weight.

“Hoh, Asterius, witness how it obeys!” he crowed as the mighty chariot rocked backwards as he leaned away.

“I am witnessing,” the bull muttered, though Theseus was too enraptured to hear.

Daedalus leaned in. “Mind the cannons in the front. They will fire your projectiles.”

There was little that could pull Theseus from his noble spear, a trophy of his reign over Athens, and blessed with the gift of his immortal father Poseidon. This, however, was the exception. The king squeezed the trigger and jumped when a ballistic shot from its barrel in a straight streak across the arena. It hit the far wall and burst into a brilliant display of flames and smoke. And there were _two_! Eyes full of wonder and his speech breathless, Theseus stepped from the chariot.

“My good Daedalus, you truly have crafted work of art without peer! There nothing finer in all of Elysium than the Macedonian Tau-Lambda — _no_ , nothing finer that Greece has ever beheld! Only from the mind of a god and your extraordinary fingers could a chariot such as this be designed!”

It was a mystery to Theseus how Daedalus kept up his humility. The craftsman simply bent his head, a proud smile between his cheeks. “Your words give me too much praise, it was but the will of Hades. And there is more, look to your armor.”

The armor had the unfortunate position of having to follow the chariot demonstration, but it was grand regardless. Without shame, Theseus was dressing himself immediately, admiring the weight of the golden plating beneath his hands.

He turned to admire Asterius as well, but the bull was lingering at the periphery of their gifts. Discomfort lined his face. For his size and the massive axe he held, he had a way of appearing small when he wanted. It was strange how Theseus’ perception of the minotaur had changed. Before he found Asterius in Erebus again, his vision of him was pure rage and brute strength, snout tainted in blood. Now — it was this, quiet strength and occasional uncertainty, a mind that constantly wondered where his place was in things.

Daedalus also caught the silence. “Your armor, _kýrios_ ,” he said, with a tongue of softness and grace.

Even still, Asterius seemed to flinch beneath the honorific, hesitateant.

“I shall dress my companion, Daedalus,” Theseus interjected. He offered Daedalus a grin and a nod. “We offer you our most devout gratitude.”

The man nodded back and turned with a brush of his chiton. Once his footsteps had faded and he was gone from the arena did Asterius stir back to life again.

“I do not know that I am meant for this, king. My current armor suits me fine.” It was garments that he had also received in Elysium, when he had first come, and Theseus sought to dress him in clothing befitting his strength and honor. Before then, save for the shawl his soul clung to in Erebus, none had ever offered the minotaur clothing before. Asterius had told him even his mother had given up on dressing him when he’d only tear the cloth from his body. Asterius had likewise seemed uncertain and unnatural at first, but Theseus had insisted, for he had caught Asterius admiring his figure in the stream of Okeanos more than once.

It could be the same now, worsened by Daedalus’ smithing. “The lord Hades has designed this to fit no sculpture but your own, Asterius! You must do him the honor of trying it on but once!” Theseus picked up his final piece — a golden, metallic mask — and sat it before his eyes. “Look, I shall take that nasty villain by surprise!”

That tugged an amused huff from his companion. “I believe he’ll recognize you the moment you speak.”

Theseus laughed like the heavens. There was nothing that could sour his mood. “Come, turn, I shall dress you and then you may decide.”

It was reluctant, but Asterius did turn. Theseus undressed him like an act of worship. Then he first hefted the breastplate against him and tied the straps, then the gilded skirt, and the belt. Asterius was quiet as he did so, only moving when Theseus prompted his arm or leg to change position. Beneath his hands, Theseus could feel how tense the minotaur was, but he held his tongue for his sake. Another of Asterius’ teaching was that there was meaning to be found in silence. That was something Theseus always feared: the gap between words in which someone could misunderstand him, forget him, leave him. Or worse still: if he did not speak, then another would, louder and more dominating. But Asterius was never like that. With him, Theseus could be silent, and strangely it seemed that in those moments Asterius understood him the best.

The minotaur bent his head so Theseus could crown him with his helm — and then, finally, was he completely dressed. The king stepped back to survey him. Asterius looked like a _champion_. He was no Bull of Minos, but himself entirely. It made warmth bloom in Theseus’ chest.

“You look most handsome, my friend.” It was a sentence the king said often, though not always so tender as he did now. A quiet bout passed as he tried to read Asterius’ expression. His companion was shifting his stance, flexing his arms experimentally. Theseus longed to pull him down the shores of Okeanos so he could see his beauty for himself — but the moment was too fragile, and it was already so much that Asterius had not immediately cast the armor back to the ground. Finally, Theseus dared to ask, “Does it fit well?”

Asterius took his time replying. He walked a careful circle, his bull tail flicking behind him. Though when he came to face Theseus again, he gave a long, contented snort. “Yes,” he said. That tension was beginning to drain from his body the longer he looked upon Theseus, delighted Theseus and his matching gold plate. “It is a perfect fit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Running title was "Theseus Gets a Gun and a Segway". This was such a wonderful suggestion from NTaya, whose comments have really fueled me through writing these chapters! I love Theseus' ridiculous chariot and I am eternally curious about how they picked the name for that... I do wish he'd gotten horses, but that's just the horse girl in me. Thank you so much for reading as always! :)
> 
> \- Daedalus, of course, made the labyrinth that contained the minotaur, and was the one to help Ariadne and Theseus get to its center. Remarkably he was also the grandson of two kings of Athens and the cousin of another. There was quite a mess regarding the throne during this period... but ultimately Daedalus had to flee to Crete after he murdered his nephew in a jealous rage because he was a better inventor. Oops!  
> \- The Argeads founded Macedonia and claimed very ancient ancestry to Temenus, King of Argos and therefore Heracles, his ancestor.  
> \- Kýrios refers to a head of the household and is an honorific akin to "sir" or "master".


	8. day 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a lifetime since he had been alone. His journey to Athens along the mouth of Aegina had brought him comfort in his solitary might: the guardians of the Underworld had fallen beneath his inherited blade, and he had known himself strong enough to stand upon Athens’ pedestal. That had been his dawn before the golden afternoon of his legacy. Grandeur had not yet turned him to a king: a figure who would, always, be both adored and detested. How much easier it had been to be but a man, downed in a cloak of freedom, who had never feared the loneliness of the sea.
> 
> Prompt: Abandonment

**abandonment p1  
**[ abandonment | isolation | “don’t say goodbye” ]

It occurred to him, staring across the clear surface of Lethe, it had been a lifetime since he had been alone. He had still been a boy when he’d taken the sword and sandals of his father. His journey to Athens along the mouth of Aegina had brought him comfort in his solitary might: the guardians of the Underworld had fallen beneath his inherited blade, and he had known himself strong enough to stand upon Athens’ pedestal. How odd it was now to think of that youthful spirit. That had been his dawn before the golden afternoon of his legacy. In those memories stood a stranger, but one Theseus loved and sometimes envied. Grandeur had not yet turned him to a king: a figure who would, always, be both adored and detested. How much easier it had been to be but a man, downed in a cloak of freedom, who had never feared the loneliness of the sea.

Elysium was a haven of his brethren, though he had not found true companionship until Asterius, that was undeniable. So soon after their first meeting did Theseus begin to feel… unsatisfied, when he was back in the Elysian Fields, wondering of Asterius’ fate in Erebus. Such curiosity had given rise to fraternity, which had in turn escalated to the devotion he crowned the minotaur with now. Theseus had always assumed Asterius was proud of wear it. His words — so low and simple, and yet their power could shake the heavens — promised loyalty and affection. His actions did the same. So many times Asterius could have abandoned his side, for it was not as though his place in Elysium was contested any longer. But he did not.

Though perhaps, Theseus was now realizing, it was because he knew no better.

That damned prince had turned Asterius’ ear to his selfish plight, it was now becoming clear. So _boldly_ Zagreus had dared to ask why Asterius aligned himself with the king, as if Zagreus knew _anything_ of their history, of their friendship, of them! Asterius had turned away his jabs — but somewhere along the way, Zagreus had toyed a bit of sympathy from the minotaur. It was something not even the heroes of Elysium had yet done. Why, of all people, would Asterius take heart for _Zagreus_? Though Asterius had not been raised in company with the gods’ legends, surely he must know that nothing good was grown in Tartarus.

That seed of bitterness had taken firm root in Theseus’ chest — and today, it had finally bore fruit. Zagreus had dared suggest he and Asterius be _friends_ , to which the bull had not rebuke as Theseus would have. It had all set the king on edge — and then Asterius had the boldness to suggest Theseus was _overreacting_ , that Theseus (who, dare to remind all, had beckoned Asterius to paradise and fought only at his side!) did not respect his _feelings_. This was no playful spar. Asterius knew where in his chest to gore him, and Theseus had faltered, but determined not to lose face before Zagreus.

They had fought, and they had lost. It was a pathetic battle, for but once Theseus only wanted it to end. He had not spared Asterius a look the entire fight. Though the bull’s snarls and snorts were a bitter enough reminder that he was there; it was a relief when Zagreus had driven his arrow right through Theseus’ shoulder blades, snapping his consciousness from him and casting his spirit back into the tender fields. He’d had half a mind to not await Asterius’ rebirth — and a fear that Asterius would fight better and triumph without him — but he’d lingered, and finally the minotaur did appear, crawling to his feet in silence.

Theseus had expected an apology, as he was deserved one. For once, it did not come. So he prompted instead: _And here you join me at my side again! What, did Zagreus offer you no mercy?_

 _I would not have taken it._ Asterius would not look at him. It only riled Theseus further.

 _Would you truly not, Asterius?_ he snapped. _Your hesitation speaks otherwise, friend! And you want to claim you would not cast aside this burden if reprieve was offered to you?_

Finally, Asterius turned upon him. The minotaur’s face was imperceivable: sad, perhaps, his eyes the deepest black Theseus had ever seen them. _King,_ he began simply, _I fear that you have never loved anything you did not own._

The words had set Theseus into shock, and then a rage, the likes he had never felt towards Asterius before, not even when they fought in the labyrinth. Immediately he lashed back without grace: accusing Asterius of not knowing him at all, of using him to gain entrance to Elysium. His vitriol only mounted as Asterius did not argue back. Left red-faced and desperate, Theseus had spat:

_Then lay your traitorous head back in Erebus! Or better yet, go find your place among the vermin of Tartarus, if that is the company you desire!_

When at that the bull would still not neither speak nor look at him, Theseus had stormed off into Elysium’s depths. Asterius let him go. As he expected: Theseus was certain he’d already been abandoned in Asterius’ heart, long before he’d even realized.

Normally when he was incensed, he turned to battle. The ache in his muscles and the triumph of spilled blood had a way of easing all his doubts. However such sport now simply reminded him of Asterius; the mere idea of entering the arena made his stomach turn and his cheeks flare. Thus it was Lethe that found his temper, for he could not bear to see the star-flecked surface of Okeanos right now. He stood upon its bank and cursed that hollow feeling inside of him, longing for the years of simplicity before… well, he didn’t know. Before Asterius, he was tempted to say, but not even in his thoughts could he convince himself he wanted to lose him. Was that not what had set all of this off? Had he not dreaded that Asterius would come to detest him again, as he did before? Theseus was a king: loved and hated. Yet how was he to make peace with it when there was one soul he could not bear the thought of despising him?

It was all Asterius’ damned fault. Their bond was blissful before he had gone and spoiled it. Perhaps he sought to gouge out Theseus’ heart, as Theseus had first speared his. Was, though, did Asterius’ words keep haunting him? For all of Theseus’ passion, did Asterius not think him capable of… love? Ridiculous, Theseus had been struck by Eros’ wayward arrow many times! it was Asterius who did not know how one should love!

“You are far from the arena.”

A stranger’s voice broke him from his thoughts. Theseus whirled about to face a man sitting not far from the river’s edge among a patch of vibrant asters. They reminded him somewhat of the shade of Asterius’ axe, but he pushed that from his head, instead frowning at the tired turquoise cape the stranger wore and how a kotinos encircled his wave of dark hair. It was peculiar, as there were not any in Elysium he did not know. “Announce yourself, brave hero!”

The man’s gaze did not lift from across Lethe. “I will no longer, king of Athens,” he said, as worn as his expression. “Those years of my name have passed. I am a shade, as the prisoners of Hades will be.”

Theseus meant to scoff that not all in the Underworld had been scraped so raw to be considered a _shade_ , but the man’s words caught him suddenly. Diomedes, whose father’s bones Theseus had carried to be buried in Thebes, had explained once why some of the Greek commanders’ chairs within the halls remained empty. Principally vacant was Achilles’: the famed warrior who was summoned to Tartarus before his soul could even cross to the fields. His might, after all, had been fabled by the Lord Zeus — and his mother had softened Hades enough that she was permitted to bathe him once in the River Styx. Though more perplexing was the other, the seat of Patroclus. His spirit roamed Elysium, Diomedes had said, but never to mingle.

“Noble Patroclus, a son of Myrmidon!” Theseus exclaimed. “Diomedes has made good in your absence with tales of the bravery and passion you downed to conquer the men of Troy. And yet here you sit, as he has claimed! A follower now only of Lethe’s shallows.”

Patroclus’ smile was wane, but he did not deny it. “So they still speak of me. The twilight has long set upon those victories.”

“Your triumphs exist eternal in Elysium, my friend!” But the way Patroclus looked upon the river stayed his tongue from arguing any further. Perhaps, indeed, those memories were gone. “Or is your twilight the reprieve of Hypnos in river Lethe?”

“Not yet. I am too much a fool, still. One day, when I have learned to surrender this useless bravery, perhaps I shall.” A long sigh lifted and settled the man’s shoulders. “Have you drunk of it?”

Theseus propped his hands upon his hips. “Ha, gentle Patroclus! There exists nothing I yearn to forget, in life or otherwise. These visions of glory and of pain are my dual-headed spear, through whose combined strength I have come to greatness!”

Patroclus, however, was knowing. “The unburdened do not find themselves at these bygone shores.”

Theseus’ grin flickered away like a blown flame. Instead his teeth ground as that horrible feeling was again summoned inside of him. There was no escape from it. The indignation still darted beneath his skin, but he was beginning to feel the pinpricks of regret at damning Asterius so. If the minotaur truly left to return to Erebus or the depths of Tartarus… Theseus would wish he could boldly go and retrieve him again, but he knew that next time Asterius would refuse him, and that would be the thing to shatter him completely. It made him nauseous to be torn between anger and concern. A thousand times had Theseus acted sheerly on his instincts. It had brought him to greatness in battle and out. It had brought him to _Asterius_ — it could not be the thing that sent him away.

Standing before Patroclus, his emotions already worn ragged, Theseus felt bare. There was no crown to wear and no pride to defend. It was how Asterius often made him feel. Though he would call him such — a _king_ — there was no expectation to the word. It was not a title he was expected to rise to, but one that was granted by virtue of just himself. Or so Theseus had once thought. Perhaps Asterius had always been speaking it from the distance of lord and subject. All certainty Theseus had about their fraternity had crumbled, as fragile as Zagreus’ blade had made it.

“I have only been abandoned by my dearest friend, whose might I have sought and protected as though it were my own,” he finally said, and his own eyes followed Patroclus’ out across the river. There had come a time in their companionship that Theseus had thought of Asterius as an extension of himself. To him, that was a flattery: there was no one who knew him better, no one who fought with him better, no one who could compare to the ease Asterius brought him even in silence. They were one, were they not? “I had never thought to see the day he’d wish to leave my side.”

Something sparked in Patroclus’ face. “He left you?”

“But his heart!” Theseus scoffed. “And where that damned weak organ strays, the body is helpless to follow.”

“I apologize. Truly.” Patroclus eased back among the blossoms. “But, if he is as dear as you say, you must trust he wishes to return. A heart does not forget its pair, no matter the distance between them.”

Theseus frowned. It seemed contrary, that one would both leave and want to come back. What could possibly lead a man’s footsteps away from what they wanted more than all? Of course, he had walked physically from Asterius and still was filled with longing to return, but this was a different circumstance. Though then those times he had to return to Elysium while Asterius remained in Erebus flickered to his mind. It _was_ Asterius’ heart that had drawn him back, again and again. His and Asterius’ relationship was so easily explained by fraternity, but the blood of it ran deeper than that. Aphrodite’s kiss came to him many times in life, but none stood until his death: not Ariadne of his passing fancy, not Antiope who drenched his wedding in blood, and not Phaedra who lusted of his son.

Perhaps the lady of love sought to drive him to madness. Or perhaps — she had never truly visited him at all.

“Can a man own love, Patroclus?” he asked, sudden.

Surprise crossed Patroclus’ face for but a moment. “I am not one to ask. However… I would say not even the goddess Aphrodite could own such a thing.” He paused. Theseus was scrutinizing his face, but it was so distant, lost in some memory Patroclus still clung to even in death. “Do not spoil it, Theseus. It is a wonder that is ruined by standing still and ruined again by risking it all.”

The accusation that his passion could soil anything made him bristle, but for once he did not feel the sting to respond. There was no weapon to this combat: and he did not have an opponent any longer, either. It left him wondering, if Asterius truly did return to Erebus, would his heart follow? Damn the bull for never speaking of his wants and desires — but strangely, for all Theseus talked about himself, he had never asked of it, never asked of Asterius'... _feelings_ , the very thing the minotaur had only just chided him for not respecting.

In the silence, Patroclus was rising to his feet. Theseus did not notice until the man was standing and giving him a slow nod. “I shall leave you. For now, this place is yours.”

“The halls of Elysium will always welcome you, noble warrior.”

Patroclus gave a sad breath of laughter. “There is nothing in there for me. Farewell, king of Athens.”

His footsteps followed the long bank of Lethe up her currents, until his figure vanished beyond a stone wall and a bowed almond tree. It seemed right, somehow, to take his seat among the asters. There was no warmth there — merely silence, but it had drunk away Theseus’ anger, leaving him feeling quite like the shade of Patroclus as he gazed out over the river. It was said those in the Mourning Fields drank heartily to forget, but even with the love washed from their minds, their souls were too stained in woe to be cleansed. There was no recourse for the yearning. And in that moment, Theseus did not know if it was better to wash the image from his head, or live eternal in its shadow, unattainable, not even in paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to capture a style to match Theseus' indecision which hopefully is still pleasant to read, but overall I was really excited to write this one! I really adore Patroclus and Achilles and will probably write more fic for them in the future.
> 
> Thank you as always for reading! :)
> 
> \- Diomedes, along with Achilles and Patroclus, was one of the suitors of Helen brought to war by Paris against the Trojans. I could fill up an entire page talking about everything he did, but his father was Tydeus, who was a member of the Seven against Thebes whose bodies retrieved by Theseus.  
> \- Asters and almond trees are ancient Greek symbols of love.  
> \- Lethe and Hypnos seem to have some connection, with Lethe notably circling Hypnos' home.  
> \- The Mourning Fields don't get a stage in the game, but they're the area in the Underworld people who had wasted their life on unrequited love go.  
> \- Theseus was the worst to every single woman he courted. He dumped sleeping Ariadne on an island after she helped him defeat the minotaur, got bored of Antiope and married Phaedra and killed Antiope when she attacked him on his wedding, and drove Hippolytus (his son) to his death after Phaedra lied and said he raped her... and then she committed suicide out of grief. Even Perigune, who he sought after he killed her father, he slept with and then left. Yikes buddy.


	9. day 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asterius had carried this burden for so long, he had nearly forgotten its weight. The feeling had become as natural as the sky bowing down from above — and for a long while, he had been happy to hold those heavens. Though the gates of Elysium opened to him, he did not have the resolution of its heroes, whose strands of life had been subject to judgment and deemed to pass. It was why he could not forget the taste of Athenian blood upon his tongue. Then he might begin to believe he deserved paradise, he might start to think he truly would someday stand in the sun and have it embrace him back.
> 
> Prompt: Isolation p2

**isolation p2  
**[ abandonment | isolation | “don’t say goodbye” ]

Asterius had carried this burden for so long, he had nearly forgotten its weight. The feeling had become as natural as the sky bowing down from above — and for a long while, he had been happy to hold those heavens. They absolved him. Just as Theseus would not drink of Lethe to forget his own triumph, Asterius would not drink to forget his own guilt. Though the gates of Elysium opened to him, he did not have the resolution of its heroes, whose strands of life had been subject to judgment and deemed to pass. It was why he could not forget the taste of Athenian blood upon his tongue. Then he might begin to believe he deserved paradise, he might start to think he truly would someday stand in the sun and have it embrace him back.

In life, there was nothing he held that he feared to lose. His family were his wardens; his home his prison; his own soul a captured and hated thing from birth. When he had come upon the first sacrifices of the labyrinth, he had been so incensed for his cruel treatment, he had gored them before they could speak. All he remembered was the _satisfaction_ of it. Crimson painted his horns and hands as he devoured them. They were an interloper, whose death may chastise King Minos for believing he could confine him. But then — they were not the only one. There would be fourteen of them in total, with smooth faces and wet eyes. When he’d found the last a of them a week later (a woman dehydrated and collapsed and unable to even spare a tear), Asterius had lost his taste for vengeance. He killed her for mercy and nothing else, dragged her body to the center of the maze and watched it decay in fascination and horror. It was the first he’d been afraid. Already he’d lost his humanity, and after that there would be no fear of losing anything else.

When had it changed? Even in death, he had been unafraid and resigned to his suffering. Not until Theseus bid that scrap of desire from him, that curse and blessing of yearning to grow. From that moment he met Theseus, the king conquered, and he sheltered. Theseus’ greed was not a thing that could ever be satisfied, and Asterius had been a fool to think _he_ of all things could bring an end to its hunger. With every battle they won together, Asterius had thought more of their moments side-by-side than the victory. It built a home within his chest — and from Theseus’ golden speech, he had thought the same. How easy it had been to gorge himself on those naïve hopes of a newly-born man. To believe he was not just another of Theseus’ trophies, as he had been in life.

Zagreus had been the catalyst that made this silt rise to the surface. It was not the young god’s fault; the dynamic between them had always been simple, with both of them entering the arena, and one emerging the victor. Theseus was more affected by the cycle of death than Zagreus and Asterius were. Though he tried to hide it, the king was more rattled when he awoke, more driven to despise Zagreus and toss him back to the depths of Tartarus with finality. Somewhere around the tenth time, Asterius had realized it was because Theseus feared to lose himself. The king wound himself in so many layers of grandeur that perhaps he was truly deluded. Asterius considered Zagreus a respectable opponent, though never a true enemy. For Theseus, he could be no shade of grey: to strike the king of Athens again and again, he could only be a most hated villain.

It didn’t help matters that Zagreus had a tongue on him to rival Theseus’. Asterius had known that Zagreus prodding him about a friendship in the presence of Theseus was entirely purposeful, and Theseus had swallowed the bait whole and refused to listen to reason. The way his insecurity would rant over Asterius’ voice but refuse to be recognized or comforted was wearing thin. Theseus’ immediately wanting to argue when they had both awoken from death was the final straw upon his back. Though, as he could have predicted, Theseus did not want to hear it. Not from a trophy.

Asterius knew he didn’t mean his cruel words, but he had said them regardless, and the bull did now wonder if cloaking himself in Erebus again would bring his heart some peace. It was as though the Fates taunted in his ear: _You wanted to be a man. What man has not felt his heart break?_ Oh, Theseus was the sun, but he burned. It reminded Asterius of his years within the labyrinth, whose walls offered no shade from the savage heat. He would press against the ivy-clung edges and weather the sun’s hurt against his fur until he was soaking of sweat and digging at the ground for water. What a mortal curse that love had both freed and trapped him, nourished and devoured him. And what pain that Theseus had never learned its duality, never learned to yield.

And even if he did, how long would it be before Asterius became his villain again, thrust back into that unforgivable realm for daring to bid his vulnerability? So many times had he said it: _I am yours, I am yours._ It was never enough for a man who had once owned the splendors of the world. Fealty to a king was a fact, not a promise.

After Theseus had flounced off, Asterius left his axe and armor by the lonely arena. Together, gilded by that noble plate that was not him, it looked like an offering to the identity Elysium had made for him. It felt restorative to be in plain clothes without a weapon. His legs strayed through the outer fields of Elysium, far enough that the horizon took the stares of the stone statues that guarded the heroes’ halls. He was certain Theseus would be among them, affirming his glory and boasting to his companions who likewise knew nothing but the thirst to conquer. Even in his grief, Asterius could not admit Theseus was wrong. He was every bit a hero as he claimed: he was strong in battle, inspiring and passionate, with a smile that could make Asterius kneel. The gods themselves had put that light inside of him. They alone decided who would be worthy enough to see it.

Without Theseus at his side, Asterius had never experienced Elysium as _home_. The exalted bowed when they saw him, but Asterius scarcely regarded them, pushing beyond the familiar until he found something as untamed in Elysium as he. Orbs of shell-pink light hung over the grasses and caressed his cheeks with spectral butterflies. As he shooed them with a brush of his hand, Asterius wondered if this was the path Zagreus took, infinitely, the young god so driven to find his purpose. If they were friends, Asterius would have warned that the surface was no more splendid than the Underworld.

Gradually as he wandered, the open meadows broke from its green into amber ripples of wheat. They were broken only by what seemed to be a grove of white willows in the distance. Asterius frowned: it was not a location Theseus had proudly shown him before. The wheat heads brushed against his hips as he waded through them, but the silence otherwise was strange, for not even the exalted of Hades or his white-crowned witches guarded here. The willows stood tall as he neared. There were only two trunks, arms wound together so tightly together beneath their leaves, curtaining a large base of stone. Asterius stepped upon, it hesitant — but it did not light or shift, neither welcomed him nor chased him away. At its far edge, between the bases of the two trees, was an altar holding a giant sphere of weathered rock.

Theseus had told him many times over that Elysium was born of Persephone, but her virtues were close to the halls. The groves of pomegranates and gardens of olives and grapes were spoils of the champions. The altar was not becoming of her, either: it was plain and ancient, and a single crack drew horizontal across the orb.

Asterius had intended to only inspect it, but as his feet fell across the stone, the sphere _shook_. With the great noise of crumbling rock, the line across it drew open wide, all at once revealing the massive eyeball beneath. Its iris was a milky red that _moved_ with infinite red chords swirling about each other in its sea of white. The pupil flitted it came to rest solely on Asterius. It affixed to him with a disorienting stare: and then, it spoke, three different sentences at once.

**BEAST OF BLOOD-STAINED TEETH.**

**WANDERER COLD.**

**KYLIX TO HOLD THE LIGHT LOST.**

It was like tuning fork that sounded in his head and each voice was a different pitch. Asterius could not help but recoil with a grunt.

“What are you?” he asked, for there was really no other question to ask.

The eye did not blink, did not move.

**BELOW, BELOW, BELOW.**

**NOT YET RISEN.**

**I AM ITS _KING_.**

Asterius’ expression tensed beneath the new sentences that slipped through his mind. This was no hero: or perhaps it was a hero’s fate. The word _king_ was so familiar now, and to hear a foreign voice declare it made his stomach twist. But this was, after all, no damned child of Eris left to wander Erebus. If this creature was in Elysium, it was because they had earned it.

“There are many kings of Elysium,” he said, even though it felt like a moot point to defend. Somehow, he was always compelled to. “Their crowns cannot be taken by death.”

**KINGS DO NOT FORGET.**

**ALL WILL FALL.**

**WHO IS YOUR KING?**

The swirl of the eye was beginning to consume him, and Asterius looked away, to the willow’s branches beyond it.

“I have no rule,” the minotaur answered, but did he believe it? King Minos of Crete had shaped his mortal life, and King Theseus of Athens would shape his afterlife. Perhaps the eye did not believe it either, for it immediately set off in a cacophony of laughter, simultaneously the boldness of the hero and the crazed noise of the deranged.

**PUNISHED BEAST.**

**BORN PRINCE, DIE HATED.**

**ETERNITY OF ABANDON.**

He was already backing off the stone platform before the words even settled from his mind. The laughter soon overwhelmed them again and Asterius turned, diving back into the wheat and not caring about the trampled stalks as he fled back to the company of Elysium. Never yet had he met someone in Elysium who was not the glorious model of Theseus: none but himself, and none but the creature-king who dwelled among the wheat. Asterius had not been of his mortal father’s blood and had thought himself instead, if anything, heir to the pitiful fate of his bull father. All men seemed to strive for kingship — and he had been closer to its glory than most would ever come. Though he had no desire for it himself, it seemed an equal impossible measure, to wish of the sun to love him when that was not what it had been born to do.

By the time he reached the familiar fields, a rainy mist had gathered and wetted the grass and flowers beneath him. Exhaustion had fettered him, and he was resigned to Theseus’ fury if it would give him a place to rest a day more. There was nowhere to go but the halls; as Asterius passed the statues beneath the overhanging, his eyes lingered upon their dry, stone faces where the rain would never touch. Not like it embraced him, now soaked him to the bone even if he could no longer feel the cold.

“Asterius!” a voice called to him; and oh, Asterius thought he could have imagined it. But his head lifted and there stood Theseus in the building’s doorway, looking so shocked and gentle that Asterius’ first thought was that he was ill. Concern leapt in his breast before he could stop it — but Theseus was descending the stairs before Asterius could even speak, out into the mist that lighted upon his hair and wet his cheeks. His eyes were not so bright and Asterius staggered to see that they’d been reddened by rainstorms of their own.

“King—” he began as Theseus’ hands reached for him.

“Please, do not go,” Theseus breathed, and Asterius shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aa I'm so sorry for the lateness of this! I had a fun Friday night but it unfortunately did not leave enough time for writing. But I finished before noon today so maybe that counts... somehow. Either way another one will be coming as per usual tonight! I had to write a companion piece for yesterday's and it turned out to be a little more a character study. I just loved the concept of Theseus crawling back and Asterius is nowhere to be found with his weapon Theseus had made for him left behind.
> 
> \- The eye was Cronus with a little bastardization of mythology on my part! Though Cronus was hacked to pieces by Zeus and sent to Tartarus, there's a bit of a disagreement about whether he's still imprisoned there or was released and became king of Elysium. I thought I could blend the two by having Zeus put just one of Cronus' eyes in Elysium for him to watch over it and also see what he was being denied. There's also disagreement about whether it's Cronus or Chronos who is the god of time, and in this circumstance I let it be Cronus, who speaks at different points in time.  
> \- A kylix is a shallow cup typically used to hold wine.


	10. day 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against the gentle scent of the asters, worries were pulled into the wind he hadn’t even realized he’d been stomaching. Mourning had always seemed a weakness to him. While others wept, he would act, bring about change in the face of the gods by sheer might alone. Petty tears were meant for those who could do nothing else. He was not born to break; none could cleave his armor, not his father whose funeral was Theseus’ coronation, not Antiope or Phaedra whose deaths were just, and not even himself, when all he had left was the air in his lungs as Lycomedes cast him to his death.
> 
> Prompt: Don't say goodbye

**“don’t say goodbye” p3  
**[ abandonment | isolation | “don’t say goodbye” ]

Theseus could not say how long Lethe was his companion. Before, he didn’t understand how Patroclus was so enamored of it. To do nothing but sit and drown in thoughts was as great a punishment to him as Sisyphus damned to his rock — but against the gentle scent of the asters, worries were pulled into the wind he hadn’t even realized he’d been stomaching. Mourning had always seemed a weakness to him. While others wept, he would _act_ , bring about change in the face of the gods by sheer might alone. Petty tears were meant for those who could do nothing else. He was not born to break; none could cleave his armor, not his father whose funeral was Theseus’ coronation, not Antiope or Phaedra whose deaths were just, and not even himself, when all he had left was the air in his lungs as Lycomedes cast him to his death.

But when Death had taken him by the hand, he had broken. The body he left behind was the one downed in armor: his spirit, like a fresh born calf, had been imitating it in Elysium. And looking at the calm of the river, he wondered, with curious fear, how he might be if he drank of it completely. He could swallow so much that nothing remained of him, if that was what he wished for his afterlife. No other hero had ever done so before. And yet, no other hero had gazed upon his own reflection and question that despite divine judgment, if he truly was worthy.

When Theseus finally rose, he felt renewed. His anger had passed and his confidence replaced it. Whatever haunted Patroclus, Theseus had not stooped to the level of a shade yet: if he would reaffirm their companionship, vow to listen, and then explain in better words how pitting them against one another was but a cruel tactic of Zagreus’ that together they could overcome… things could be salvaged. The hole of desperation threatened to devour him (they _must_ be salvaged, he could not imagine how things would be otherwise) and he smothered it.

“The glory of the gods is not awarded without its trials,” Theseus announced to no one but himself. Another misery of isolation is there was none to hear his words, but he’d warm himself with them regardless.

In his walk back through the fields, he kept a sharp eye out for Asterius. The bull enjoyed the rural splendors of Elysium the most; after battle, they would most often find themselves in the gardens’ shade, gorging themselves on grapes. It was so easy to imagine his body beneath the grove’s blanket of shade as it always was… but not today. Theseus’ confidence faltered the closer he drew to the halls with no sight of Asterius. How simple it would have been if Asterius had been curled beneath the vines and Theseus could have sat as his side as he always did, to fill the silence with recounts of how well they fought. Of course, he had not fought much like a champion today, though the shared tapestry of them had enough stories to fill an afternoon’s quiet and then some. If Theseus were to die a second time, it was those memories he wanted to be last upon his tongue.

No matter! If Asterius was not in the fields, then he was in the arena. Theseus knew they shared a love of battle; Asterius spoke with the swing of his axe and all of his tells were in the way he moved his body. That was Theseus’ language, more than the way he spoke. When they fought together it was elegiac, pure lyrical, a chorus that sung the same in each of them — and perhaps that was what Patroclus had advised, when the heart cried out to be a pair.

Theseus ascended the stairs leading to the grand arena, but he was not halfway up before the glint of something against its walls caught his eye. He frowned. It looked like a pile of polished armor, neatly left. Though the shaft of a weapon emerging it was familiar — and then Theseus’ stomach dropped. Asterius’ axe. His plating. The warmth of Elysium may have been the dread of Tartarus in that moment. The king’s head swam as he ran up the remainder of the stairs. This was a vision, a nightmare, a sting of Eris to madden him, not… not the truth, not that Asterius had left it all behind. Suddenly his legs could hold him no longer. He sunk to the earth beside the unlit pyre of Asterius’ armor, his axe: all of it built for him of Daedalus. All of it at Theseus’ behest, to adorn him in the way he thought a kindred spirit ought to be loved.

“I commanded it, and you have done it.” His breathing came in gasps as he reached to caress the axe’s cold metal. “My brave companion! Was this a curse of your loyalty or your loathing? You have left me without a word, to wonder what passion has taken you!”

The dark reality of it descended upon him. His previous woes had not had such finality. Was he not the man who spilt the Marathonian bull’s blood to Apollo? Did his descendants not wage war against Troy for the crime of his mother’s abduction? Asterius was no prize of Helen to be pulled through Hades, not even if the minotaur’s uncommon beauty swayed it. Theseus could not help a blistering smile as he gripped the axe handle. Oh Asterius, ever the silent wit. His point had been laid clear: his love had never been won. It was not the gifts that had bound him to this place.

Strong as he was, Theseus could not gather all of Asterius’ belongings with him and so he hefted only the axe across his shoulders. The weight was heavier than just the weapon alone. His knees buckled as he descended down the staircase towards the halls. Before the propylaea was the lushest garden of Elysium, and from that soil became the statue of every soul who passed judgment. The immortal sculpts of Odysseus, Herakles, even the Trojan-blooded Anchises — and of course himself. He had insisted upon finding his the moment Elysium opened to him. This was the face of himself in the eyes of the gods! And he was every bit as glorious as if he’d carved the marble himself. Chiseled muscles, a bold smile: but as he looked up into his stone facsimile now, its grin seemed forced beside the furious tears that came to his eyes. He eased the axe down to rest its shaft against his statue’s thigh.

Theseus had never questioned those who loved him: he was handsome and he was bold, and love came naturally with those bedfellows. The maidens he sought were fortunate to be desired by him! And how he doted upon Asterius was like those early summers of love, before the autumn indifference turned his heart elsewhere. But he had not strayed, not even felt the _temptation_ , not like Asterius had. What fate that he was now the one of mourning! Even with sorrow settled so heavy upon his heart, Theseus had a mind to laugh at how Asterius always was the one to challenge him. It would ever be his rival to move him, even to places he never before cared to go.

There was so much for which he admired Asterius. He had told him many times, but truthfully there would never be enough words for it. Theseus had crowned him in olive leaves — not from a tree of Zeus, but they became sacred under Asterius’ soft eyes. When threaded them into his mane he’d pressed a kiss to his brow.

 _Now all of Elysium shall know they witness a champion,_ he’d said.

And oh, Asterius had been so sincere, even the memory of it melted him. _Their judgment is not the one I heed, king_.

_Then they will know you are my champion! And I yours, to stand among the Machai as brethren!_

Those were oaths Zagreus could not have taken from him.

Theseus backed away from the statue into the mist that had overtaken the garden. The skies had darkened and Zephyrus’ breath become swift to flush the fields with dewy spring rain. He turned on a wet heel to return inside, but his gaze immediately snapped to silhouette through the column gaps. Theseus’ heart stopped dead. There was Asterius, walking silently in the mist, his head bent low. He wore not his armor and carried not his axe, but he looked of Elysium as ever. Theseus’ breath caught in his throat and He threw himself into the archway, the bull’s name already on his lips: “Asterius!”

Asterius’ head popped up and Theseus was already hurrying down the stairs to meet him. His dark brow creased in an expression of sweet confusion. Theseus was aware of how he must have looked, face pale and his smile breathless, but his hands found Asterius’ sides without hesitation. And Asterius still let him, did not resist the way Theseus’ fingers curled against his fur as he did so long ago.

“King—” Asterius started, but Theseus silenced him.

“Please, do not go,” he whispered, fervently, but to look into Asterius’ kind face he knew there was nothing he would deny him. Theseus shook his head, “No — if you desired to leave, I would be your devoted guide back across Styx. But I would never wish it, Asterius, not even in those foul words of anger could I want you anywhere but my side.”

Asterius’ expression broke and at once he was reaching to cup Theseus’ face. He looked so aghast that Theseus nearly faltered. “Did you think I had returned to Erebus?” he asked.

Until he said that, it had not occurred to Theseus that he _hadn’t_. The king frowned. “Your belongings were cast outside the arena, is that not a message?”

“I have told you,” Asterius said with a long sigh. With the way his thumbs dragged circles against Theseus’ wet cheeks, it was impossible to see it as anything but fond. “My place is with you. Why do you not believe me?”

The very reminder of the argument’s source caused heat to flash through his veins and oh how Theseus wanted to argue. It so visibly leapt to his face with the way he leaned in to protest — but he clicked his jaw shut. “Zagreus, that arrogant villain!” Theseus scoffed. But he was not standing before Zagreus, and so he huffed. “You have never given me reason to doubt,” he amended, to the tune of Asterius’ snort. “But how could I not fear the day our bond might break, Asterius? How could I not dread the dawn when I am without you, when depths far greater than the river Styx divide us?”

“I understand.” As he spoke, Asterius was gently guiding him backwards and up the stairs, so they looked evenly into each other’s eyes. “Before you… I did not think there was any worth in me.”

“No—” Theseus immediately protested over him, but Asterius did not wait.

“But, king, I do not stand beside you because I am afraid. It is not because without you, I have no light. It is because in its freedom, I have chosen you.”

His chest sung. Theseus reached to stroke his cheek, cherishing the feeling beneath he fingers that could have been fleeting. “And I have chosen you, dearest Asterius, as I shall until Lethe takes my soul! You have become my heart, and no matter how far from me you are could I not feel you in my chest.” Patroclus’ words came to him readily, as truly beside Asterius did he feel his heart had its home once again. There was no comparison to the sweet relief that ran through his veins. The truth was easy to speak when the alternative was no words at all. He needed Asterius to feel their sincerity and the world that changed within him to imagine Asterius gone. Theseus leaned in, pressing his forehead against Asterius’ and letting his eyes close. “But I have wronged you, and I can do nothing but vow. You have all my promises I will try and… witness your perspective, and be reasonable, for you.”

His eyes snapped right back open as Asterius rumbled: “And what of Zagreus?”

“What _of_ Zagreus?” Theseus snipped; did that name have to constantly curse him?

“If the next time he taunts you, and speaks of friendship.”

Ah, it was his first trial. Theseus huffed, leaning back so he could look into the depths of Asterius’ eyes. The minotaur was as serious as he had seen him. Begrudgingly, Theseus softened. “I shall rise to his vulgarity no longer. Though I do not know what you see, Asterius, you have judged him nobly, and I will respect it.” Lest Asterius think he was too agreeable, Theseus once again added, “For you.”

He could not be too bitter about it, not when Asterius’ gentle laugh followed, and the minotaur wrapped his arms about him. “That is all I would ask.”

“It is not too much,” Theseus agreed. It was a lie, but it _should_ have not been too much, and he would endeavor to make it so. Then suddenly, effortlessly, his feet were being lifted from the stairs and he choked out, “Asterius—!”

The minotaur scooped him into his arms and, startled, Theseus wound his legs about Asterius’ torso. A heat flushed bright to his cheeks: Asterius had never held him this intimately before, but their bodies fit together so naturally, as if all along his soul had only desired to wrap itself around Asterius’. Asterius held him beneath his thighs and a smile blossomed back onto Theseus face, the weight of losing Asterius freeing from his chest with every breath. He was here. And he had never intended to leave, not for loyalty, not for malice, not for Zagreus’ deceit. Affectionately Theseus brushed back a strand of the bull’s forelock.

“Asterius,” he murmured softly, yearningly, “If the Fates hold in their fingers our mortal strings, they have tied mine to yours after it was cut.”

Asterius’ face was aglow with a tender smile of his own. “Then you should never fear they will be separated, king.”

Theseus laughed, and as he leaned in to kiss the crest of Asterius’ snout, and the minotaur was already pressing back against his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you lose a minotaur? You forget to cherish him. :(
> 
> I was weak and wrote a resolution part three. New prompt tomorrow I promise!
> 
> \- The Marathonian bull was the bull of Crete that fathered the minotaur. Medea, Aegeus' wife, fear Theseus' arrival in Athens would displace her own children as heirs, so she sent him off to kill this bull (and die and/or offend King Minos). Theseus stole the bull, brought it to Athens, and sacrificed it to Athen and Apollo. This in combination with Minos' son dying in Athens was catalyst for war.  
> \- When Helen of Troy was stolen back by her brothers, they also took Theseus' mother, who was housing her, to be Helen's servant. She was rescued in the Trojan War by Theseus' sons, her grandchildren.  
> \- The Machai is a collective name for the spirits of combat, including battle strength, war cry, and onslaught.


	11. day 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Oneiroi were meant to be kind to the spirits who had passed. They dwelt by day in their mother Nyx’s long skirt of darkness, and at dusk would fill the fog of Erebus with their frantic, black wing beats. Though it had been long since Theseus slept among the living, he recalled too well their whimsy and malice. There was not a place in Greece a man could hide from them — none but death, it was supposed to be. Spirits dreamt only of the lives they had left: their regrets and cruelties for those in Asphodel, and their victories and pleasures for those in Elysium.
> 
> Prompt: Drowning

**drowning  
**[ in a dream ]

When Theseus slept, he dreamt of drowning.

The Oneiroi were meant to be kind to the spirits who had passed. They dwelt by day in their mother Nyx’s long skirt of darkness, and at dusk would fill the fog of Erebus with their frantic, black wing beats. All of them had been named by their brother Hypnos; it was through his mortal dreamers could they ascend to the surface. And without the gods, they were reckless things. Though it had been long since Theseus slept among the living, he recalled too well their whimsy and malice. They would lie that the gods sent them and spin such stories of yearning, of jealousy, of fear. There was not a place in Greece a man could hide from them — none but death, it was supposed to be. Spirits dreamt only of the lives they had left: their regrets and cruelties for those in Asphodel, and their victories and pleasures for those in Elysium.

And still, somehow, he dreamt of the cold sea. If it was kind Pasithea of Hypnos who had tamed the Oneiroi into wearing only the guise of friends and lovers in Elysium, she must have forgotten him. Was his consciousness not also barred from the Ivory Gates? When Theseus asked his companions about their dreams, they always told him the same: they were the most beautiful visions of their former life, waking them feeling contented and restored. It was bitter to hear of other’s happiness when he could not match its shine with his own. It was true that in the infinite days of Elysium he did not truly need to sleep, but the matter was that indulgent pleasure of it had been stolen from him. This was blessed paradise — he was owed these dreams of his greatest victories! He had fought for it and earned it! Why would there be one aspect of bliss that evaded him?

It always began the same. Foolishly he was in attendance of Lycomedes beyond one of his own estates. The king’s hospitality had blinded Theseus to his true intentions, and oh that jealousy made his face gaunt and sick. Now it was forever marked in his mind after death: how it pinched in cruelty as it pushed him from the cliff’s edge, did not hesitate even as Theseus’ arms flailed before him. Then there was the rush of air that stole all of the curses from his lungs and twisted the sky and sea into an infinite loop of blue, so he could not tell if he was falling up or down — until his body found it, as it always did, the waves catching him with a sickening shout.

The sea had always been his friend, his father. But that was its surface, and these were its depths. His dream taunted him with the memory of the pain that burst in his torso and the darkness that enveloped him. His legs and arms would not obey him to reach towards the fading surface.

 _Poseidon, father, let me live so I might punish this gutless villain._ He remembered thinking it, and in his dreams it would come to him still, but faded now, a dying man’s lament.

If Poseidon heard him, he never answered. The seas became the water of the womb with how they pulled him deeper, wrapping about him like a mother’s embrace. His warmth was caressed away until he could feel nothing, nothing at all. He remembered idly thinking to summon his spear to his hand, if just to pierce his breast and let him die with a warrior’s dignity, but the thought slipped away from him. Everything… slipped away.

That was when Thanatos would come to him. What a sweet lull his voice was, with his body haloed in Nyx’s stars. _It will be over soon_ , he promised. It was not cold were he touched Theseus’ skin. _It will be over_.

And then he would awaken, sweaty and furious. It was _not_ over, and it seemed it would never be over.

The first time he had dreamt of anything beside the sea was after he met Asterius again, in Erebus. It had been a long day fraught by Alecto and Tisiphone, and then the humiliation of being freed by one of his mortal enemies in life. The minotaur, as he only knew him then, had told him not to return; even as he departed, Theseus had known he wouldn’t heed the brute’s words. The Furies had wounded his honor once again and that would not stand! It, of course, mattered not that the minotaur had spurned him so cryptically. If they encountered one another again within the fog, then it would be sheer coincidence.

Exhaustion followed him back to Elysium and he’d surrendered himself to sleep, even knowing what his fate would be. But he had not awoken to the rage of Lycomedes’ face: instead, it was the fields of Troezen, speckled with spring poppies. His hands before him were youthful and unscarred and around his forehead was a tainia to hold back his shaggy, blond locks. It was the years before he had even known of his heritage in Athens. Freedom crowed in his breast as he raced through the grasses alongside his grandfather’s curly-tailed hounds.

_Watch your tail, Methepon, for the son of Poseidon—upp!_

His boot’s toe suddenly caught the earth. Theseus hit the dirt and tumbled down the poppy hill; the dogs brayed behind him and the sky swirled with the green grasses in a way that almost felt familiar. But the feeling faded as he came to rest on his back with his headband crooked over one eye. The gentle blue above him was infinite, calming, and his smile was one that knew no troubles.

The dogs crowded his vision and licked at his face. _No, off!_ he laughed as he attempted to push them away. They nosed him until he stood again, catching his breath as he gazed to the horizon and looked upon the brightness of the sea. Someday, when he was King of Troezen, his ship would know every inch of its waters and he would make his home in its tides.

When Theseus awoke as himself again, the sense of peace others had described was descended upon him. Whatever horrible curse of the Oneiroi had been shattered. It was not his greatest victory — a child rolling down a hill was far, far from it — but it was a pleasant memory nonetheless, and Theseus pushed it aside to instead rejoice that his truly grand moments were sure to follow. He wore himself purposefully ragged in the arena, sparring with man after man until he was panting and red-faced. Though when he collapsed upon his bed, it was the sea that came to him, the same as it had always been. There was no contentment of Troezen: only Thanatos’ voice that echoed within him as he lurched awake.

Little had changed since then. On occasion he’d be gifted some silly memory: it was always in the gaps of his heroics, such as watching the sun set over Athens, or being lulled to sleep on his ship by the ocean’s waves. They were mortal moments that could not compare to the Elysian Fields in beauty or magnificence. In time, though, Theseus discarded his resolve to amend this. There was nothing that could be done. To sleep was to die, to scar the glory of his waking life with the reminder that heroes drowned.

Not until Asterius came to Elysium did Theseus think of inquiring about the matter again.

“What do you dream of, Asterius?” he’d asked once, as they both polished their weapons.

The minotaur had paused with a contemplative frown, one that Theseus would get to know very well in their time together to come. “In Erebus? Or here?”

Internally, he shied away from knowing what haunting dreams had plagued Asterius in Erebus. Externally, he grinned. “Among Elysium, of course! Our most fortunate isles!”

“I dream of my mother’s face,” Asterius said. His hand sagged away from his axe and his eyes grew distant. “How she held me. She speaks to me with words I had forgotten. I did not know how precious they were then.”

Theseus had never before dreamt of his mother, but the suggestion made a root of longing take hold in his stomach. Aethra had received her freedom and her vengeance when his sons fell upon the Trojans like the villains they were; she, of course, had never been at the forefront of his own victories, so he had never craved to dream of her… But the thought of her blue eyes cut him, and he wondered if perhaps someday he would see them again.

“A most wonderful memory,” he supplied after a beat of silence when it was clear that was as deep as Asterius would reminisce.

Asterius hummed deep in his throat. “And what of you, king?”

“Ah, nothing but glory infinite, my friend!” The words leapt from him. The lie was so natural because he desired it so dearly; it was what he was supposed to have. “The golden tides of long battles, the touch of young maidens! As fresh as the first dawn I felt them!”

Asterius snorted with such vigor that for a moment Theseus thought he’d seen right through him. But to his relief, the minotaur not even looking at him; he was instead clutching his holding stone tight and staring intensely back at his axe blade. “That sounds… also wonderful.”

Theseus agreed with as much gusto as he could muster, and that was that.

It was Asterius who brought it up again, a long while later. Such time had passed that Theseus had nearly forgotten he’d lied in the first place; it seemed such a minor issue with no need to remedy it, even now that Asterius had looked so deeply into his heart. There was such peculiar shame in the truth as well: he, one of the most legendary leaders of Athens, was being outwitted by some dastardly fiend of Hades. It occurred to him only once that perhaps he was denied his visions because somehow, he had been undeserving — but such a theory was brief. Elysium cherished him! He had lived a life of richness and was plagued with no regrets! If this was how Hades chose to sully his paradise for his perceived indiscretions against Persephone, then he would bear it, if only to prove he did not buckle.

He had never complained of it, or admitted it either, and thus it took him by surprise when Asterius broke the evening quietness as they undressed.

“Do you ever dream of me?” the minotaur asked.

Theseus whirled about to face him. Tender Asterius, dressed not in his armor but soft in his tunic. Such a sight would normally have had him tempting Asterius into the warmth of the bed’s sheepskins, if the minotaur had not looked so grave. “Dearest Asterius, how do you mean?” Amid the question, it dawned on him. “Ah, do you speak of our battle?”

“It was one of your victories, king,” Asterius continued. “You won the love of Athens.”

Theseus fiddled with the cloth of his own tunic in his hand. It was indeed; his rise to king had been celebrated with stonework depicting him gripping the great minotaur’s head, which at the time had been a glorious depiction of his strength and triumph over Crete. Surely, even if he did dream of splendors, Elysium would not torture him with the image of staking Asterius through the chest. “Never, Asterius!” he finally announced. “That is a triumphant dream of victory no longer. It is an image Elysium has banished of my past, as she showers me with visions of you every day in my future!”

While he had intended it to be consoling, Asterius seemed unaffected. “It is fine, king,” he simply said. “I had only wondered if that was why you cry out in your sleep.”

Theseus nearly dropped his clothing. “I _cry_?” he sputtered. The cursed Oneiroi were not satisfied with merely crafting their theater to his slumbering mind, they had to make an audience of Asterius as well. Theseus scoffed. “Ha, I do not know such a sound!”

“You do, often.” Asterius’ frankness was sometimes a relief and yet other times, such as now, an inescapable burden. The minotaur sat his weight down upon the edge of the bed. “Do your victories trouble you so?”

Theseus drew in a heavy sigh. No other was so determined to wring these little weaknesses from him, to find the cracks in him that his garden statue’s smile did not bear. It had come to pain him to lie to Asterius, even if it saved the minotaur’s mind for the moment. And somehow, ugly honesty did not feel so disgusting when he was with him. “In truth, Asterius…” Theseus began as he moved to sit as well upon the sheets. “It is not often they are shown to me. The unmoored realm of Hypnos bears me no kindness, not even in Elysium.”

“You dream of your defeats?”

Theseus gave a sardonic bark of laughter. “If only, my friend! They at least would remind me of my battles and enliven my veins with how I yearn for more!” He could not bear to catch Asterius’ eye now. Both of them knew how Asterius had passed, but Theseus had so rarely described his own death, and never in certain detail. It had always been on the wings of a boast: The King of Scyros was murderously jealous, cruel enough to catch Theseus unawares rather than in a proper fight. It was not a death that rang with pride, but it was a well enough one, when told right. “No, it is not that. It is… most often, when I fell to the basin of my father and Thanatos came to my side.”

Even from the corner of his eye, he could see Asterius’ nostrils flare. “You dream of your death?”

“Yes, the Oneiroi could not stand to imitate my joy! So instead they must show me that most hated scene. It has never changed, Asterius. The sea is ever as cold, and Death ever as kind. I don’t understand it.”

As he lifted his gaze to meet Asterius’ eyes, the minotaur’s arms were already embracing him. The warmth seized him as naturally as the ocean did. Such pity had always made Theseus squirm and deny, but there was no wound with Asterius.

“I will keep you warm,” Asterius murmured against him. “And I will be there when you wake, every time.”

It had not occurred to Theseus that each time he died, even within the impossible fabric of his mind, Asterius was what awaited him. His cheek laid upon the haven of the minotaur’s chest, and he asked the question he had been wondering since they first spoke of dreams, “Did you dream of me, Asterius? In Erebus?”

“Sometimes,” Asterius replied, soft. He did not let go. “But not how we fought. I would hear you walk in the labyrinth, but I could not open my eyes.”

It was not what he expected, but Erebus was not the cruelty of Tartarus. Theseus had always found it peculiar that Asterius had been asleep when he came upon him — at the time, he had decided the minotaur had simply bloated himself on innocent flesh. Now he merely wondered if Asterius slept to stave off the moments of his life, to steel himself before the slaughter. It would have been more simple to slay a sleeping beast. Yet the noble blood of him told him to rouse the minotaur: and then subjected himself to a lifetime of never forgetting Asterius’ eyes.

“I would have kept you warm, as well.” For passion, he would never be outdone.

Asterius’ deep laugh shook him. “You did, my king. Your visits warmed my wake and slumber.”

As they crawled beneath the sheepskins, no dread knelt on Theseus’ chest. To be haunted of the Oneiroi was but the quick winter of Elysium’s seasons, and it paled to the beautiful spring that awaited him when he would awake. Thanatos could lead him where he wished: there was no cold that touched him that could not be undone. The sea and sky danced together in each of his visions, though perhaps in the end it was not the ocean that took him, but instead the blackest glory of the night, its expanse untrekked with unforgettable stars.

But none of it mattered, for with Asterius’ arm wrapped around him that night, the Oneiroi painted only poppies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt fill for CandidAberrance, thank you so so much for the suggestion! I actually had to double back and check and Theseus did get thrown into the sea, which I actually did not consider at first because I thought surely Poseidon would help him out if that was the case… guess not. Maybe use one of those blessings not to drown instead of drowning your son, Theseus. My friend actually uncovered dialogue from Poseidon saying that Theseus is NOT his son which I might explore later? So I've left it open for now, either way I feel like his mother would have claimed he was.
> 
> More fluff!! I'm insatiable.
> 
> \- The Oneiroi are spirits of dreams, often attributed to being the children of Nyx, and sometimes as the children of Hypnos. I thought it'd be nice if Hypnos was their cool older brother rather than suddenly having hundreds of kids. They depart to dreamers in Erebus, either through a gate made of horn (for god-given, prophetic dreams) or a gate of ivory (meaningless dreams).  
> \- Pasithea was Hypnos' wife, who was a Grace of relaxation, meditation, and hallucination.  
> \- Methepon was an Ancient Greek dog name that meant "Pursuer". I just thought it was cute.


	12. day 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first Theseus saw him, he stood at the bow of a trireme. The minotaur was such a sight that the rowers had begun to shout and point at him first: there was a monster upon the Cretan ship, with the head of a bull and horns wider than a man’s arm. Theseus had heard of the fiendish beast born into Minos’ house. His stature was incomparable, far beyond the strength of Cercyon. Truly he did remind Theseus of the Marathonian Bull, his abominable father, who Theseus had wrestled to Athens. That was the blood the gods had been denied and it would finally be sacrificed on the Greater Panathenaia’s final eve.
> 
> Prompt: AU, Asterius is accepted as a prince of Crete, and he and Theseus find each other in war

**alternate universe: princes p1  
**[ asterius is accepted as a prince of crete and sent to war ]

The first Theseus saw him, he stood at the bow of a trireme.

The minotaur was such a sight that the rowers had begun to shout and point at him first: there was a monster upon the Cretan ship, with the head of a bull and horns wider than a man’s arm. Theseus had heard of the fiendish beast born into Minos’ house. The story was rather humorous; the king of Crete thought he could scorn Lord Poseidon’s gift, and in return he’d been cuckolded and forced to rear the horrid creature among his own. The minotaur was every bit as imposing as he’d been described. His stature was incomparable, far beyond the strength of Cercyon. Truly he did remind Theseus of the Marathonian Bull, his abominable father, who Theseus had wrestled to Athens. That was the blood the gods had been denied and it would finally be sacrificed on the Greater Panathenaia’s final eve.

But the twisted strings of Fate had killed Androgeus, son of Minos, by the king’s own indiscretion! What irony it was that the beast he had refused to sacrifice trampled the youth, just as mercilessly it had thrust within his wife’s dignity. The gods had drawn the bull’s hooves to the throat of the youth, Theseus was certain, or perhaps it was driven to bloodlust at the mere scent of a noble Cretan. Of course, the greatest crime was that the slaughter had spoiled the festivities. It had been his first year competing and he had earned Athens’ adoration as a handsome, young charioteer. It had to be admitted that Androgeus had performed well, superior to even his father Aegeus — until the pankration. The detesting bull had broken free of its paddock and gored young Androgeus’ flesh. Death set upon him slowly and horribly: yet another price for Crete, who dared to shelter that monstrous son.

Minos himself sailed to receive the boy’s bones. His grief caused such a stir in Athens as he demanded the assassins be presented and executed, for surely it was jealousy that drove someone to release the bull and whip it into a rage. When none could be shown, his ships left back for Crete under promise of war.

War came first in plague and famine. A horrible sickness began to ravish Athens and king Aegeus sent word to the Oracle in Delphi, who advised that it was of Zeus, turned by the prayer of Minos. Not even sacrifice of the Marathonian Bull to wise Athena was enough to calm the tides. The city of Athens was starved by the time the Cretan fleet appeared on the horizons — and in one of those boats was the bloodthirsty half-bull of Minos, prince of Crete.

Theseus laughed at the idea of that minotaur commanding ships, and against _Athen_ s, no less! The battle had been short and pitiful. They battered the meager boats of Crete; the golden lion prow of Theseus’ own vessel splintered those Cretan hides between its jaws and Theseus would board them with his father’s sword twirling. There was no fresher delight than soiling those sea waters red with the blood of fools who thought they could besiege Athens. Theseus had never had the might of a navy beneath his fist; the foe was soon overwhelmed and turned stern, and the Athenian soldiers cheered their retreat as the sails took that bull-man and his fleet off beyond the waves.

However once Crete managed to touch Athens’ soil, the battle’s disposition shifted. Their civilian soldiers were made brittle by Zeus’ curse and not even victories could keep them fed over rations. The damned Cretans were insatiable along the coastline; they plundered what sad crop farms could produce for themselves and scorched the seed for the new sowing season. Rumors awoke that their minotaur prince devoured women and children without mercy. Theseus ranted and he prayed — it was so soon after Aegeus recognized him and traitorous Medea and her son had fled the city, this could not have been the gods’ path for him after his victorious labors. So the hoplites took up their shields and Theseus mounted his steed, and they began to meet the Cretan forces on land.

Inevitably, he’d find himself searching the Cretans’ helms for that curl of horns. Today, it was not there. The crisp air of dawn shed over the soldiers and its rising light caught their shields like an array of suns. Theseus’ steed rooted at the dewy grass as he listened, idly, to the captains give their orders. The soldiers did not need their authority: they needed fed and emboldened, and for the guiding light of Athena to finally bless the defenders of her city.

Where was their divine respite? King Aegeus had traveled to Delphi as the war effort grew wane, but the Oracle had told him that Crete would not be shaken, and to let King Minos take what he willed was the only way to stem this blood and sickness. Theseus had never been denied Olympus’ grace before. This was his foray into their petty games, and bitterly he hoped Hades would choke upon all the souls Theseus sent to him.

“And are we not the autochthon of Athens?” he shouted over their helms as the linemen took their mark. The irony was, of course, that _he_ was not — but his blood had truly always belonged of it. “With our finishing breaths do we not uphold this glorious city, who has sheltered us, our women, and our sons? On her noble fields we shall claim our honor in her name! Athens, to victory!”

The hoplites were driven into a rallying cry. They stomped their feet and banged their spears against their aspides, but Crete across the pasture did not return the clamor. They were silent until the captains’ orders drove each line of shields at one another. In Theseus’ eye, it was clear why: the forces of Athens, tired as they were, far outnumbered Crete’s. Thus far, they had succeeded in not permitting the foe to touch the city and held fast by sheer numbers along. They could not let Crete see even a glimmer of weakness! The Cretan soldiers had arrived on a triumphant wind knowing Zeus heeded their prayers, but surely they were starting to bend now and realize the futility of sacking such a noble state as Athens. These simple men did not have King Minos’ hunger for vengeance — and the pride of their prince’s supposed murder could only maintain them for so long, when faced with stalemate after stalemate.

The opposing shields clashed together with a beautiful knell that rang out over the field. The hoplites’ spears drove at any open pockets they could find to catch blood, each thrust a promise of Athens. Behind their lines, Theseus rounded his horse in tight, impatient circles, not falling in line with the rest of the hippeis. The mounted hippotoxōtæ were sturdy but he was not of them: he stood of himself, the glory of his father’s blood mixed with the strength of the gods. It had been occurring to him that this war was a test, a test of his might! Why else would Poseidon bid his bull to trample Androgeus and pit Athens into battle so soon after his crowning? As beloved as he was as a charioteer and a savior of Marathon, the people’s favor would truly be swayed if he was their hero of war.

And that was what he was born to be. A hero to defend men.

Sudden shouts from the battlefield broke his reverie and Theseus’ attention snapped to where Cretan soldiers were toppling. The Athenian hoplites stampeded their foes in frantic measure to keep pushing through them — their charge was unyielding, like water bleeding through a cracked vase. And then the line broke. Cheers rang out from the Athenian men as they surged past the Cretan hoplites, spears striking into that tender back flesh. They were starved of food but bloated of sweet andreia! Theseus’ laugh was drowned in the bloody uproar. In was his hour, and his horse lunged forward into the fray whereupon his xyston, so furiously impatient, finally met its mark. The pole’s tip speared the throat of a Cretan-plumed hoplite. Victory was already coming to them.

Mere moments passed before the Cretans’ desperation mounted enough for them to call their retreat. Their hoplites were not so well-armored as Athens’ were. Their people must have been poor, Theseus mused, or perhaps accustomed to fleeing defeat. The Cretan men were swift as they rushed from the battlefield like a cowardly tide.

Theseus waved his pole in the air as he called, “Athens, we shall pursue! Their pallid backs call for our spears, do not deny these cowards their destitution of Hades!”

Nike’s wings at their heels, the Athenians pursued them. Even as the Cretans fled into the green lungs of the forest beyond the tilled land, Athens did not falter, filling the morning air with cries of victory. The hippeis cavalry swept through the foliage on their sure-footed mounts, and as did Theseus, that familiar thrill fluttering in his chest. Oh how he would never tire of this! He should have been born in a chitoniskos and cuirass, weaned straight to the noble mistress of warfare. There was no other that shrouded him in the great cloak of honor, nothing else that would move Greece to sing his name long after he one day fell in a battle that would shake Olympus.

And then, on peak of a glorious shout, Theseus realized.

The Cretan numbers were no longer so few. His stomach plummeted in dread as he watched their damned trap spring upon unsuspecting Athens: the psiloi had been nestled in the wooded hills like children and cravens. Javelins sung through the sky and the Athenian’s cheers turned to shouts. Their lines were scrambled and the cavalry exposed. And worst of it all, Theseus finally saw what he had been looking for: a pair of horns, and the minotaur’s massive sword cutting through the confusion.

An arrow staked his warhorse’s shoulder. The stallion tried to bolt, and Theseus swore a curse as he pulled the reins in a single hand. Strategy was still knitting itself together in his head where a lofted _javelin_ gutted the creature’s side. It screamed as it buckled and collapsed, pitching Theseus down to the earth with it. Disgusting cowards! Dishonorable might! He’d managed to wrench his leg free before it could be crushed by the dying steed, but oh how his teeth ground together in fury. Barely had he pulled himself to his feet when he heard a guttural snarl, a roar of pure malice over the clamor of battle that shook Theseus to his bones. His fingers wrapped about his pole’s shaft as he lifted his head to see that great, furred body charging through the fray as though nothing stood between them — there was such ferocity in his movements that Theseus might have admired, if not for the moment’s urgency.

“Come, monstrosity of Crete!” he cried to him.

The beast needed no encouragement, and furthermore did not reply in words. Theseus speculated that perhaps he could not speak, like his feral father — but the minotaur could, however, fight. His reply was his long sword shining as he brought it down upon Theseus’ shoulder. It met the metal of his xyston rather than flesh just by a hair’s reaction, and Theseus grunted as he tried to shove the minotaur’s weight back. The beast barely staggered before he was at him again. What horrible strength he had; Theseus could guard himself against the most powerful of men, but this creature was not of mortal seed. And as he barely deflected the minotaur’s swing without again getting in a strike of his own, Theseus for once felt the beginning of that panic his past foes must have all experienced.

He was nothing if not courageous, however. Theseus’ eyes flashed as he pushed the minotaur back with much effort, the words strained through his teeth, “I shall yield _not_ for the spawn of divine retribution, most hated of the gods!”

The beast paused but a moment, his liquid black eyes glancing over Theseus body. And for that moment was Theseus able to look at him back. His snout was not tasted in Athenian blood at the moment, and his bull-face did not entirely resemble his father’s. A black forelock was twisted over his forehead contrary to the rest of his clipped mane (clipped like Theseus’ war stallion!) and even without human features the furrow of his brow was strikingly human. And then his jaw parted, and he spoke.

“And I do not yield for any,” the beast said, in a voice so deep it sounded as though he’d never used it before.

Theseus gaped. “The villain’s cow-tongue can speak!” he laughed through the ache of his back and arms. “A delightful trick! Your mind seems more clever than your sire’s, bloated as he is of Cretan blood in our pastures.”

Anger shook the minotaur’s expression and Theseus felt vindicated as the beast _roared_. The glory was brief, for with this arc of his sword, Theseus’ pole splintered beneath it. The prince sucked in a breath. He had nothing else to guard himself as again the sword drove down upon him, and this time its steel shattered the xyston completely. This could not have been sweet death. He had not lived long enough: his thread was not intended to be cut the moment he came to Athens, to die and leave his father without heir and Athens without a king of Aegeus’ blood. Would his bones be buried in Athens or Troezen? Which of those cities did he even deserve, without the honor of his family name to lead a triumph in battle? Tender visions of driving Crete across the sea were fading and despair came to him instead, the youthful dread of Thanatos come too soon. There would be none to sing his glories after he died, and he would shame his father if the king dared cry tears for a boy so early killed in battle.

By the gods’ will, the minotaur had inexplicably flipped his blade. Theseus’ face sparked and he meant to lunge for the creature with those two wooden posts — but the minotaur was precise, and he jabbed the sword’s shaft right at Theseus’ windpipe. The air was strangled from him immediately and he choked. So instinctive was his hand flying to his throat that Theseus did not even realize his position had been compromised until the minotaur seized him with a hand that wrested off his father’s helmet and threw it to the earth. Theseus cried out for it. His father’s ornaments were his belonging of Athens and the palace Aegeus, and should he fall, it would be in it.

But his desperation did not linger long. Like the brute he was, the minotaur’s fist flickered at the edge of Theseus’ vision. There was a crushing pain in his temple, the battlefield and its screaming swirled, and then finally there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU has grabbed me and I'm so addicted to writing it. I was intending to post it all at once, but as it got longer, I decided I should split it up and post the first part now. I am so pitiful with ancient warfare knowledge, I imagine this is ridiculously inaccurate but alas! I'm looking forward to writing more young, brazen Theseus and poor Asterius trying to win Minos' pride.
> 
> EDIT: My brother loves ancient warfare and informed me that I screwed up so much LOL. It’s just about the gay minotaur yearning. I should have given them all rail guns.
> 
> \- I had to twist the timeline around a little for this. There's a discrepancy over who took the Cretan bull from Crete, Heracles or Theseus. The most common telling is that Heracles was sent to retrieve the bull on one of his labors, and Theseus was the one who then later retrieved it from Marathon and sacrificed it. By all accounts Theseus retrieving the bull happens after the Athenian-Cretan war over Androgeus' death, but in this AU I altered it so Theseus arrives in Athens prior to that, still brings back the bull to prove his relation to Aegeus, and the bull is to be sacrificed at the end of the Panathenaic Games.  
> \- The Panathenaic Games occur every four years in Athens and are centered around musical, athletic, and equestrian events during this large celebration to Athena. The pankration is similar to a wrestling match with few rules.  
> \- Androgeus, son of Minos, died during these games though there are multiple accounts: some say that he was killed by jealous competitors, others that the Cretan bull killed him. I decided to make Athens certain it was an accident and Crete certain it was a murder.  
> \- Some war terms! This is more accurate for a little more modern than Theseus' time period. Trireme are traditional boats with lines of rowers underneath and the soldiers on top. They'd ram opposing ships and then board them. Hoplites are the infantry men and aspides are the shields they hold. Hippeis are the cavalry, hippotoxōtæ the mounted archers, and xyston are thrusting spears. The psiloi are more lightly-armored and are the skirmishers, archers, and slingers. Andreia is the important manly spirit of warriors.


	13. day 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Asterius saw him, he was sitting in the chair of a trireme. For the stories Asterius had heard of him, the Athenian prince Theseus was rather… unremarkable. His physique was broad but that was all that distinguished him from the ship’s soldiers; that, and the nicely beaded chlamys that lay over his armor. Tales of Theseus’ endeavors had unfortunately reached even the ears of Crete: Asterius had love for very few men, and none were the arrogant sort born of divine prophet.
> 
> Prompt: AU, Asterius is accepted as a prince of Crete, and he and Theseus find each other in war

**alternate universe: princes p2  
**[ asterius is accepted as a prince of crete and sent to war ]

The first time Asterius saw him, he was sitting in the chair of a trireme.

For the stories Asterius had heard of him, the Athenian prince Theseus was rather… unremarkable. Above him the sails of Athens rippled in the sea wind and his hair was a tousled blond. His physique was broad but that was all that distinguished him from the ship’s soldiers; that, and the nicely beaded chlamys that lay over his armor. It was said he was a god-given bastard of King Aegeus who slew the violent guardians of the Underworld on his quest to seize Athens’ throne. Tales of Theseus’ endeavors had unfortunately reached even the ears of Crete: Asterius had love for very few men, and none were the arrogant sort born of divine prophet.

And none of Athens, the bloated city. The death of Androgeus had shattered his home; his older brother was his father’s beloved, his heir crowned in wildflower garlands. Asterius and his mother had been in Crete when Minos wrote of Androgeus’ murder in Athens. The king was amid a prayer on Paros to the Graces, but such soft words died on his tongue to hear his only blood had been deceived in the Panathenaia. Immediately he sailed to Athens whereupon their arrogant king denied any wrongdoings — and would not admit to goading the bull so, that it would set itself upon Androgeus.

The bull. Asterius’ stomach had knotted at the mere mention of the creature and his mother wept openly. Asterius dared not ask if it was for her son or that repulsive love. Rage took him and he forced himself to flee the room for his mother’s sake. There was no place for his fury within the palace, but it built and it built until he could think of nothing but iron scent and the cracking of bones. No one fed him while they wallowed, and he felt like a crazed animal dying within his skin. But was that not his father? Would Minos look upon him and see only Androgeus’ butcher, crowned in the same horns that took his son from him?

When the king returned home from Athens, his mother distanced herself to assist with the funeral rites. Asterius did not see Androgeus’ body before the prothesis. He almost did not dare to gather with his half-siblings when they went to mourn at Androgeus’ funeral bed. There had always been a fierce divide between him and them, despite how they all shared the water of Pasiphaë’s womb. But it was one he had helped to create himself. As youth he’d been a particularly monstrous terror. Even the gentle heart of Ariadne had wised to him after he’d bit Glaucus on the arm so deep that Minos had whipped him himself. It was said a child’s nature never changed as he grew: only his face became older and his tongue became shrewder. That was him, down to his sinful bones that his mother was burdened to carry for her king’s crime. His siblings’ hatred he could shoulder — but never Pasiphaë’s, and so he did linger behind them all to gaze upon the restful face of Androgeus, emerged from a long sheet of colored wool.

Without the life touching his skin, he looked like a foreigner. Gone was his youthful zest, which not even marriage and fathering two sons had taken from him. No, it was Athens who could not bear this jewel of Crete. And Androgeus’ own folly for believing the jealous Athenians desired anything but a Cretan’s defeat. Their games were homage to Athena; other cities were invited merely to be crushed beneath Athens’ greatest. Now they knew what happened to those who outshone the Athenians on their own soil.

Once Androgeus was buried, Minos’ thoughts turned to war. He prayed to Zeus whose blood still ran thin in the kings of Crete and emerged with the god’s blessing that punishment would rain upon the Athenians. Heralds were sent by ship to Athens with declaration, and by the time of their arrival, Athens had already begun to be ravaged of Zeus’ curse. The Cretan palace tittered to hear. No city had ever sacked Athens before, which would make Crete’s victory all the sweeter.

Asterius had grown up during peace — and now he was realizing he was meant for war. Pasiphaë had combed his mane and told him that all of Minos’ sons were readying to fight, and he would too, adorned in a cuirass of Crete so all would know where he belonged. When he was outfitted for it, it was the first time Minos looked upon him with something other than hatred in his eyes. The king marveled over his size and the greatness of his horns. He bragged of him, laughed at how Athens would tremble when he came to her walls. And, more than anything, what truly bridled him, was how Minos for once spoke his mother-given name: _Asterius_ , not the minotaur or the son of the bull, but a prince worthy of a title. Asterius knew then, observing his muddied reflection in the curve of a shield, that he had been born for battle. His place was to fight for the crown that did not spurn him, and he would do it well.

Athens’ naval fleet of their fine trireme was not exaggerated, but with Zeus’ blessing, they were weakened enough for Crete to strike the shore. Asterius blossomed once his feet were back upon the earth. They razed Athens’ farmlands beyond the wall — and Crete’s own men delighted in how Asterius would, frenzied, tear into the flesh of the farmers and their children. War awoke a lust in him that he’d never been permitted to taste. It screamed in his veins: to _ruin_ this land, these men, until all that surrounded him was destruction and maybe then, finally, he would be sated. Minos had been right. The Athenians learned of him quickly and they feared him, but it occurred to Asterius that none of them knew his name. They would point to him and scream that the minotaur was on the fields… but as a beast of Crete, not the victors that his half-brothers were in his battles. It shouldn’t have mattered. This was his role and remembering the king’s pride steeled him to it. That soft voice in his head that pleaded when he tore free a child’s jugular was nothing but vexing.

(But did this mean his bull father had not been provoked after all? Did such madness and bloodlust rest within him as well, that he had shared to Asterius?)

And similarly vexing was that damned blond youth of Athens, Aegeus’ heir come from afar. He was proud and wealthy enough to ride his own horse and was quite determined to do so, even if the battlefield’s hills troubled the steed. He shouted louder than the hoplite’s clamor and always in such a golden voice but utterly devoid of meaning. Though he could not have known it, every aspect of him was poised to get underneath Asterius’ skin. Gods how he craved to show him — prince _Theseus_ — the true strength of Crete to temper his arrogance.

It was why Asterius could not resist charging him, when the vain prince and his men were coaxed right into a trap.

Watching the panic flicker in his face was every bit as satisfying as Asterius thought it would be. It drove the feral hum in his mind and Asterius let it consume him entirely. Again and again he smashed his sword down upon Theseus, that triumphant _damned_ man, and his blood churned with the raw need to see his lifeless body twisted and sprawled beneath Asterius’ feet. Then he would win. Then Crete would have its victory and Asterius would have his place, an eternal war hero of his motherland, praised by his mother and the king and his siblings and every servant who flinched beneath even his softest snort. No one could take his cuirass from him. Forever would he belong of Crete and the scribes would write him as _Asterius_ , born of a beast’s blood but become their champion.

 _I shall yield_ not _for the spawn of divine retribution, most hated of the gods_ , the prince had puled in his obnoxious voice and it had only heightened Asterius’ madness, for how dare he speak when he should die?

 _And I do not yield for any,_ Asterius responded — regrettably, as immediately that pitiful man had begun to taunt him for his sire. Red filled Asterius’ vision: not even now, so clearly overpowering Theseus, could the prince see him as anything but a bull’s whelp. He’d swung down blindly with his sword and Theseus’ pole had splintered right in his hands.

It would have been so simple then to kill him. Theseus had not yielded or surrendered beneath Asterius’ blade and as such invoked no right to mercy. He would have died with nothing but arrogant words on his lips. But something made Asterius hesitate: it was that strange familiarity of his boasts, so akin to Androgeus’ pride when he sailed off to Athens. While Androgeus did not have the mind of his elder full brother Catreus, he was muscular and he was confident, truly one of the strongest of Minos’ blood. And here beneath him was Theseus, arrogant and strong and fabled of his labors, the only jewel King Aegeus had to his crown. To tell Minos he had killed Aegeus’ heir on the battlefield was a single victory. To deliver the wayward prince to Minos for whatever retribution the king desired, even if it was for Asterius to ultimately gore him, was a far greater one. Those were the words they would sing of him. The bringer of justice for Androgeus, the equalizer of one wronged son for another.

So he’d flipped his sword and bashed Theseus’ throat with its pommel. The youth had wheezed — a much more pleasant sound than him speaking — and Asterius had seized the moment to rip the golden helm from his head. His sweaty blond hair framed those blue eyes, flashing with an unspoken plea, before Asterius balled his fist and struck him right in the temple.

The prince had thumped to the ground like a rock. He collapsed so suddenly that for a moment Asterius worried he was dead, and his brilliant idea lost. But even among the surge of the battlefield, he could see there was a gentle flutter to Theseus’ breath. The prince looked rather peaceful with his mouth shut. His skin was olive dark and rippled with strength. It was not shameful to admit he passed for handsome, if Asterius had a mind for those things. The gods did not typically sire ugly children, after all, if all those tales of his bloodline were true.

Such thoughts, however, were fleeting, and Asterius snorted as he tossed Theseus’ body over his shoulder as easily as a doll. Even as their captains were calling the Athenian phalanxes away, the dull pain of an arrow point struck Asterius’ shoulder as he lofted their prince so. A roar, part in pain and part in victory, bellowed from his chest. In a moment of feral rage he slammed his head into the nearest hoplite that bore the colors of Athens, and he shook with pure thrill as the man toppled and collapsed upon the earth. The Cretan soldiers pursued the Athenians as they flew back to the grassy hills, but Asterius stood, letting the euphoric adrenaline course through him with his hand firm on Theseus’ spine. This had been his battle. His triumph. His prisoner.

Ultimately, it had been a glorious land victory for Crete.

By the time Asterius met with his commander and brother Catreus on the shores beyond Piraeus, Helios’ chariot was descending beyond the horizon’s crest. Moreover, Theseus had since stirred awake and found himself bound in chains, much to the man’s clear chagrin. Those idle thoughts of Theseus’ handsome nobility while he was unconscious had been thoroughly tossed from Asterius’ mind. The prince had made himself quite petulant as Asterius shared his word of battle with Catreus, and how he planned to deliver Theseus home to Crete promptly. He and Catreus had never been close, but Asterius respected him well; if he had been born of his mother and Minos, Catreus was the sort of man he would have wished to be. He was patient and of strong conviction, which had once been eclipsed by Androgeus’ more literal strength.

Catreus, ever shouldering the duty of an heir, seemed hesitant. “Asterius, the walls of Athens are weak,” he said with a shake of his head. “Let one of our brothers take Aegeus’ son while we continue our flight to the city. For the glory of Crete, you are needed here.”

“He is my prisoner,” Asterius growled back. That possessive rumble was building in him — but no, he could not strike Catreus. Catreus simply desired the weight of his horns and his growing, monstrous reputation to crumble Athens’ might once and for all. He forced it down. “The walls will be even weaker once Aegeus has realized what he’s lost.”

Catreus’ lips parted to reply, when their conversation was interrupted.

“Whichever man dares to take me shall see his death before he crosses Kythnos!” Asterius and Catreus turned as one towards Theseus’ shout. Proud defiance lined the Athenian’s face, even as he stood guarded by spearmen. “You would bring me across Lord Poseidon’s seas? Ha! I will show you the true might of Athens, as you have coaxed Zeus’ hand!“

Asterius did not speak as Catreus chose to regard Theseus with a long look. “Very well,” the Cretan heir finally said, inclining his head back to Asterius. “Perhaps it is wise. The gods have favored his trials against the chthonic guardians before. And if the Oracle has foreseen his blood of Poseidon, I will not be the one to misprize it."

Had it not swung the conversation in his favor, Asterius would have protested. The true son of Poseidon would not have been felled by a jab to the throat and a blow to the head, he longed to say, but he stayed his tongue with a snort. Whoever had raised Theseus had taught him well the power of confidence. It seemed the young prince could boast his way into anything. “He will be well-guarded,” he reasoned. “The _might of Athens_ has already fallen to me today.”

“You scoundrel,” Theseus snarled immediately. “Face me without the cover of a _coward_ and we shall again measure our mights!”

Heat flashed through Asterius and he longed to rise to the challenge, but Catreus was motioning for the captains to bring Theseus aboard the trireme. Asterius settled back, watching as Theseus stepped towards the sea with pride, his chin lifted and his feet steeping high like the noble heir he was. But that brave face did not convince Asterius — his jaw was set a bit too tight and his quick breaths were not that of a prince but a frightened youth, who in his young life had been convinced that courage could dispel all of his fears. Sentimental, but a fool’s belief. Theseus would be whipped to an inch of his life, if not by Catreus then it would be expected Asterius would himself. How long would he last knowing there was no reprieve, no sanctuary of Athens to come for him?

When Asterius looked from Theseus back to Catreus, his half-brother was offering him a small smile. “Well done. You have proven yourself for Crete and our mother, Asterius. I shall see you again soon.”

Emotion throttled him. He was standing at his brother’s side, not as a villain but as nearly his _equal_ , worthy of his praise. How his mother’s heart would soften when he told her of his victories. But Asterius simply nodded, stiffly. Now was not the time for weakness. “Fight well, Catreus. I will return soon with word of the king.”

“May the seas be kind to you.” Catreus’ smile broadened. “And the Athenian as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pacing of this is a little all over the place, but I'm thinking I might ultimately take this work, edit it, and continue it as its own separate fic? I keep getting more ideas so we'll see where the muse takes me for the remainder of this collection! I'm having a great time establishing Asterius' family relationships compared to Theseus' only child syndrome. Minos' family is so wild I keep imagining like a "Knives Out" rendition of them.
> 
> Taking an interlude from this to finish up some smut for tomorrow! Thank you so much for reading and for everyone who encouraged me to pursue this AU! :)
> 
> \- Minos and Pasiphaë have seven children (not including Asterius of course). Their sons are Catreus the heir, Androgeus, and Glaucus, and their daughters Acacallis, Ariadne, Phaedra, and Xenodice. Deucalion often gets put as Minos' son but he's in fact Minos I's son. In mythology, Minos reigned for such an unrealistically long time that it was rectified by making a Minos I (generally a nice person, brother to Rhadamanthus who is one of the judges of the Underworld) and a Minos II (That Asshole).  
> \- On the subject of, Catreus seemed like a nice guy! When he eventually became king of Crete, he received a prophecy that one of his children would kill him, but he didn't want to tell them. His son found out and left to protect his father, and Catreus later went searching for him in his old age, whereupon his son didn't recognize him and killed him.  
> \- Piraeus is Athens' port city, and its walls contain Piraeus as well.  
> \- Kythnos is an island on the way to Crete from Athens/Piraeus.


	14. day 14 (update)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something felt not right. The beast’s breathing had only grown more heavy with Theseus standing before him; every inch of those muscles had drawn tense, and his ears were pricked with what Theseus could only assume to be animalistic interest. There was an electricity between them and it only mounted in the silence. This was how heroes felt before their trials, Theseus was certain. The anticipation, so palpable, and the line that drew him to his opponent, like there was nothing else in the universe but them. Excitement leapt in his chest as the minotaur’s hesitation must have caved to some other desire, for the beast shifted, his powerful limbs pulling him into a stand. But as he did so, his legs parted, revealing what he had been so fervently hunched over.
> 
> Theseus nearly dropped his sword.
> 
> Prompt: Breeding/rutting

Hi guys! Thank you so much for supporting this collection, I'll be posting today's ficlet in the A/N because I published it separately, and I wanted to update everyone following this! When I started writing I didn't expect to be this inspired to write longer pieces, but now that I have ideas swirling around, I'm going to update this collection less frequently but strictly with short prompts/drabbles. I'll also be regularly posting multi-chapter or standalone pieces, which is what I decided to do for today's writing because it got uhh long. Sorry if this is a disappointment but hopefully it's not! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to full work: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097036


	15. day 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stars already soft in slumber and they beamed beneath the brightness of Elysium: the sun that never set, not heralded of Helios or Apollo, but instead the titaness Hemera, who gazed upon the heroes while her mother Nyx guarded the daemons of Tartarus. Okeanos was the vein that still bound them, and all of the Underworld for that matter. It circled through both vast Hades and the earth’s surface, feeding back into itself eternal and birthing all the rivers of Greece. It was said that the titan Okeanos laid within its waters after the World-Egg cracked. A story that all children knew. However, Theseus often forgot that Asterius had never been permitted to be a child.
> 
> Prompt: Marked and Past

**hadesnanobingo  
** [ marked | past | not so long after asterius comes to elysium ]

It was twilight in Okeanos. The river’s surface was stained a dark black with the stars already soft in slumber. They beamed beneath the brightness of Elysium: the sun that never set, not heralded of Helios or Apollo, but instead the titaness Hemera, who gazed upon the heroes while her mother Nyx guarded the daemons of Tartarus. Okeanos was the vein that still bound them, and all of the Underworld for that matter. It circled through both vast Hades and the earth’s surface, feeding back into itself eternal and birthing all the rivers of Greece. It was said that the titan Okeanos laid within its waters after the World-Egg cracked. A story that all children knew. However, Theseus often forgot that Asterius had never been permitted to be a child.

They were both shucking their clothes on the riverbank after they had sparred their muscles sore. They had bathed together as warriors many times now; the minotaur did not have a man’s shame of nudity (and _that_ was something Theseus was not keen to impress upon him). Asterius did keep looking quite oddly towards the river, but Theseus assumed he simply wondered if the temperature would be fine today, or if the currents could touch them if they waded too deep. Lethe was far shallower, Theseus would admit, but bathing in forgetfulness seemed too rash an idea even for him. Besides, that ever-present Patroclus clung to its shores like a widower. For some reason, he never sat beside Okeanos. A man of habit, Theseus supposed.

As Theseus untied his sandals, Asterius spoke up. “My king, the water is black now.” His brow was furrowed. “Is it… safe?”

Of course — he had not yet seen Okeanos when the world above was in daytime, with no need of the stars! Theseus cracked a smile. Asterius was wondering if the ash-dark river would corrode them both, and still he waited until he was near naked to ask. Since Theseus had brought Asterius to Elysium, some feeling more devout than mere victory or pride had found its home in his chest. It stirred within him, as he tossed his sandal atop his tunic and belt.

“Not to fear, Asterius!” he assuaged his friend. Now staunchly nude, Theseus gestured to the star-flecked river with a sweep of his arm. “When Helios takes his charge across the mortals’ sky, the night follows at Nyx’s feet to Hades. You gaze upon them now as they rest, cleansed in the palm of great Okeanos!”

That captured the minotaur’s attention, for reasons Theseus did not entirely understand. Asterius’ soft ears pricked and he walked a few steps closer to the edge, but then paused, as though the haunting sea might ensnare him to stain his soul among the others. “These are the stars?”

“Indeed, my friend!” Theseus laughed as he trailed behind him. Asterius’ fascination with such things charmed him completely. “Made of heroes and villains both.”

Asterius’ nostrils flared. For a long moment he considered. In the beginning, that sort of quiet had bothered Theseus to no end; he had no other way to pry into the minotaur’s head, after all, and it left him wrought and self-conscious to suffer beneath silence. He’d complained of it once — that it _wounded_ him that Asterius would not trust him with his thoughts! — and his companion had affixed him with a typically stubborn response. _Have patience, king,_ he’d said. _Some words take time. Others are better not spoken at all._ It was not a philosophy Theseus could understand. Still, in the space between then and now, he’d learned there was a certain beauty to when Asterius unfolded. After being trapped within the labyrinth and then Erebus, his presence was something that moved Asterius to even speak at all.

“When I was imprisoned, I counted them,” the minotaur finally did say. “I watched them move as the seasons commanded. They were as trapped as I was, only in the heavens instead of the earth.”

Theseus’ brows shot to his hairline. “Nay, Asterius, you misunderstand! To be placed among the heavens — why, there is no greater honor for champion or fiend!” Not even the rawness of Asterius’ words could have stopped his protest. When he was a youth, Theseus dreamed of living eternal and exalted. It was a prize even greater than Elysium, to be made divine. His ancestors would have observed him in the sky and traced those fragments of his soul upon their maps, and never would his deeds be forgotten even when his bones turned to dust. Theseus shook his head. “No, they are not trapped of Nyx. Their souls are made bright and immortal, hung in the aether of the gods!”

“Why are you not among them?”

As soon as the question left Asterius’ tongue, curious and innocent as it was, both man and minotaur knew Asterius had made a mistake. The smile snapped from Theseus’ face.

“Pure favoritism, or so I think!” the king scoffed. “There is no other explanation — why, of _course_ the likes of my cousins Heracles and Perseus were considered above me. And I dare to say Orion was granted the honor only for that _fluid_ Zeus gave to his birth.” He ticked off the evidence on his fingers. It was quite transparent that the descendants of Zeus would never be forgotten, while the heroes of other gods’ blood met their rest in Hades, living only on the tongues of mortals they’d left behind. Of course, after receiving no such summon when he died, he comforted himself that he’d hardly want to spend eternity among the likes of the _Dioscuri_. He’d split the sky asunder if he ever got the opportunity to stick his spear upon them again.

And, well, lately he had not spent much time bemoaning his own misfortune. The indignation bled from him as quickly as it came, and his rant ended with just a huff. “But, it does not matter. I am where I belong, and no longer do I doubt it. And—” he inhaled, reaching for Asterius’ shoulder. “Come, my friend, to the water’s edge. I must show you.”

Asterius seemed as perplexed as Theseus himself was, that the king did not have more to say on the matter. Though he did not mention it and he did not protest as Theseus took his upper arm and guided him right to the shore, so close that the river’s swell threatened to wet their toes. The inky darkness was like nothing the minotaur had seen before, save for the night sky herself, which was now just a memory. It ran just as a dark as blood but not so thick: serene and haunting, the infinity of the universe rather than blood’s infinity of man.

Theseus’ touch did not leave him. “I have told you that I was the one to battle the bull, your father, in the fields of Marathon after my cousin did bring him there,” Theseus began. It was a story he cherished, if only Asterius would not stiffen so intensely every time he mentioned it. It was, after all, his prelude to Athens, the moment Attica would embrace him as his father’s heir. “And I gave him his rest in blood, to heavenly Apollo.”

Predictably, Asterius continued to stare out across the river. “So you have said.”

Theseus shook his head. “Ah, my friend, but I had forgotten! The bull did so righteously bleed, but also was his might first crafted by Lord Poseidon himself! And so his soul was instead taken to decorate the sky, among those other daemons proven worthy of divine heed.”

Now, Asterius looked to him. So rarely they mentioned the Cretan bull, and in truth Asterius himself did not know whether to refer to the beast as a monster or his kin. It was not as though he could readily forget who sired him, not when his own face was forever a reflection of his mother’s crime. In some moments, especially those in Elysium, the weight of it lessened — but would never completely release him, not in paradise, and not within his own thoughts. The bull’s nature had been described to him so often it _felt_ like Asterius knew him, but he never had. A coat like snow and twin horns that turned readily against those who would deny his master. Asterius had yet to contend his ancient resentment of the Cretan bull for sullying his mother and damning him to a miserable existence, but a new feeling complicated all of it: pity, for how the beast had never desired to be as a pawn in man’s games. How could he hate the only soul blameless for all he’d endured?

“Which is he?” Asterius asked. The scattered stars looked so different from when they were his fellow prisoners, comforting him in the labyrinth’s lonely nights.

Theseus paused, his chin lifted as he surveyed Okeanos’ depths with the eye of a man who had hoped someday he’d be among them. Then, he pointed. “There!” he announced. “Do you see the cluster of his breast? And the twin lance of his horns!”

Theseus sounded so enthused that for a moment Asterius could have forgotten their lives had already been taken from them. If he leaned into his touch it was only to better look — the angle was not quite befitting for stargazing, after all. But he did see it, or think he did at least, that beautiful patch of starlight that in no way resembled the stories he’d been told of the bull. There was not meant to any joy in villains. Theseus said so many times himself: there seemed to be a thick line drawn between the heroes and the damned. Asterius was so weary of being detested, but even in Elysium he could not shed his skin to be the man Theseus now witnessed him to be. He could not explain to the king in sufficient words why he, for once perhaps, he was wrong. To pull that flesh of memories from the bones of who he truly was — it was bloody, not a rebirth.

Would Theseus spurn him if someday he discovered that Asterius was not too made of stardust?

“Yes,” he said. “I see it.”

The king had been patient in Asterius’ long silence, rather curiously, as most often he had something to say about it. In the beginning, Asterius had not known what to make of Theseus’ speeches and orating. They were not reserved for grand moments (though he supposed the king would argue that _any_ moment could be grand), but still boastful even in times of quiet and intimacy. When Theseus spoke, it could either be as noble as the sun or as cutting as its flame. Asterius did not know how Theseus would react if someday he told him that he seemed far stronger in his silence. The sun crowned him and his blue eyes were always alight with passion yet unspoken; it was that expression Asterius never doubted, the one he had followed to Elysium.

As he looked upon the waters, Theseus’ hand fell from his side as the king strode into their depths. The darkness consumed his feet and then his legs until he stood submerged up to his hips. Blanketed in the night, he tossed his head and his hair laid messy across his forehead.

“Asterius, noble son of the stars!” he declared. By that crooked smile it couldn’t be anything more than pretty words, but it settled deep in Asterius regardless. The king extended his arm and his fingers reached for Asterius, in a way they reached for nothing else. “Come, join me in this marvelous spectacle, where we shall stand among both men and gods!”

To wade into a field of souls — particularly the soul of one’s _father_ — was a feeling both inspiring and disconcerting. Still, Asterius could not dream of refusing Theseus’ hand (not when the king had come to expect it), and he grunted as he took it, so small within his own. The river was colder when it was in night. When the brightness of Helios’ sun illuminated its waters, it was as balmy as Elysium’s breezes. Now it chilled his skin immediately and set his fur coarse and prickling. Yet, the frost did not numb his insides: it breathed only upon his exterior and nothing deeper, the strange warmth of a soul’s heart untouched.

It must have shown on his face for Theseus laughed, eagerly pulling him deeper. “Do not worry, my friend, it will bring you no harm,” he said, ever the hero he claimed to be. “Hoh, see, there sleeps the twining beast Ladon, who met his proud demise to the bow of Heracles! I have said to you, I’m sure, that he did receive it of Philoctetes — _oh_ , Asterius, let me find for you those wretched, villainous twins, how foul they’ve bargained their way into this place…”

The man began to wade about as he searched, prattling to himself old stories that Asterius was able to half-piece together. Around them was that history Asterius had never been told, but the one that enveloped him regardless. One star had drifted like a lily close to his thigh. Theseus’ words gone distant, Asterius stooped with dreamy purpose, fingers dipping beneath the water’s surface to cup the glow in his hand. It quivered beneath Okeanos’ current, but some force of the Titan himself anchored it to where it floated. It brightened his palm — and across it, a strange sliver he had not before noticed. He was just straightening to examine it when Theseus’ voice pitched behind him.

“ _Asterius!_ ” Asterius whirled around in the water to where Theseus was gasping. “Your _back_ , are you—….” The words caught in the man’s throat as he looked down at himself as well. From where the water licked, it left a scattering of lines in its wake. Theseus’ fingers pressed to them, marveling. Scars. They were the ghosts of them, like resurfaced memories pressed into his soul.

He had often heard that time had no place in the realm of Chaos, but he had not thought it would also be true of Chaos’ brethren. Perhaps this was the means by which the Titan cleansed the stars: drowned in Okeanos’ twilight, hung in that eternity and at once both young and old. Curious, Theseus dipped more of his skin to admire those cuts and nicks. There was a scar drawn across his knuckles from when he’d bothered one of his grandfather’s hunting dogs too terribly, and another spanned from his elbow to wrist from the Crommyonian Sow. So enamored with his own skin’s constellations, he nearly forgot Asterius’: the marks upon his back were lashes, not a noble wound. He looked back up to comfort his poor friend, but before him Asterius’ head was bowed to and his fingers probing to inspect a different scar: a thick one down his sternum, glowing as silver as the moon.

Theseus’ throat tightened. He could not have forgotten its position, and suddenly the waters of Okeanos did make him run cold.

Perhaps against reason, he drew close to the minotaur. Asterius’ brow was gently furrowed, but he did not push Theseus away; his dark eyes locked upon Theseus’ face as the king came to stand before him, close enough to hear his breath. Their gaze did not part as Theseus reached out, so slow, and pressed the flat of his palm against the wound. Asterius shuddered. It had been a long while since his friend flinched away from him and it was nearly enough to make him recoil, but some force held him still. That silver light consumed his skin, skirting through the gaps of his fingertips like it was holding him back.

“Is this…?” Theseus murmured.

Asterius’ response was immediate. “Yes.”

It was not often that they spoke of times past; for Theseus, those memories were cast in guilt, the likes of which he could never properly explain to Asterius. The minotaur had never blamed him of it. Still, to hear him _thank_ Theseus for a noble death did not absolve the champion of his burden like he thought it would. For all of his youthful strength, his ambition, his greatness, was that all the mercy he could give? Was there nothing else but to damn them each to a path without a shadow? The cruelty of Erebus for Asterius, and for him, a legacy without satisfaction. Unlike Asterius, he bore no death wound.

“You looked different then,” Asterius voice came from above him, distant.

“Hah, of course!” Theseus laughed off the emotion that threatened him, and he broke away to brush his hand through his short hair. “Did my looks make such an impression upon you, my friend?”

“I meant you were not yet a king,” Asterius snorted. “Even then, you were shrouded in greatness. But still you were young.” And then — Asterius reached for _him_ , the bull’s fingers cupping his cheek as he spoke. Though there was no longer a heart in Theseus’ chest, it clenched around the emptiness anyway. “You reminded me of the sons of Minos. My rage did not let me see.”

It was not really an insult. The sons of Minos were more noble than their father. Not as divine as _him_ , of course, but their tunics as finely-spun and their weapons as sharp as his were. Perhaps those Cretan princes deserved even more esteem, for only imprisoning their brother rather than slaying him. Theseus was not sure which fate was worse in Asterius’ eyes. In any case, he could not possibly tell Asterius what he’d reminded him of — a beast, powerful and furious, but with a strange heart that was the only one to remold Theseus’ judgment. For that era, Theseus had never admitted he was wrong. He could not have been, such circumstance led to this natural decision. It was the will of the Fates. But did he have a choice?

“Ah, I was not so different, in that guileless youth,” he found himself replying. He could not deflect, not with Asterius’ warmth upon his face, not with the scars of his journey so visible against his soul. _My pride did not let me see_ , he might have continued, though instead he forced a smile. “But it was long ago! Scarcely do I resemble that boy any longer.”

The bull tilted his head most endearingly. He might have been noticing that Theseus did resemble the face of his youth, and it was indeed far fresher and clean-cut than the moment he died. Though his long hair that glowed with the blonde color of Aegeus, his mortal father, had since been cropped short. Asterius’ ear flicked as he made to touch Theseus’ hair, though then pulled away. “When did you cut it?”

Emotion flashed in Theseus’ eyes, distant beyond the boldness he most typically bore. “Tch, when I departed from Athens,” he said as he took a step away in the shallows and tightened his arms across his chest. They both knew that he did not depart so much as he was exiled, following how both his friend and now his city had been torn from his heart. Asterius never corrected him and Theseus would never admit to it; if he had not wanted to leave Athens, he’d said, then there was neither king nor god who could make him. Though left he did, and a short month later he was choked by sea water and in Thanatos’ cold hands. His vile hatred of the twins, Castor and Polydeukes, was evidence enough the bitterness had never healed.

“Did some man cut it?” Asterius ventured.

“Of course not!” Theseus scoffed, loud and obnoxious. “Menestheus could not have touched me! It was… pah, all of those portraits. What good is the shadow of king, whose marbled bust rests in a palace while he sits squalor in the streets?”

Asterius softened. Theseus was glowering down at Okeanos’ gentle ripples, teeth gritted in an expression Asterius had only ever seen him make in defeat. “It does not change everything you have achieved,” he reminded him.

“No, it didn’t!” Theseus snapped, then grumbled. His true opponents were gone, exalted or rotting, not standing before him. It was in part what made Elysium so sickly sweet. There were untied strings that remained on the surface, and yet his thread would never intertwine with them again. He was granted his familiar spear in Elysium — though he could wield it for his pride no longer, merely against those who had done him no hurt. There was no satisfaction in that. Not for a man who had carved out a legacy of conquering, of slaying those who erred by him. “But there would be no more.”

He had known, when his mother was stolen and Athens rebuked him, that his dusk approached. Perhaps Thanatos had seen it in his eyes as he drunk deep of the sea. That shine of Death’s blade was like the moon finally heralding his twilight, before he’d been plunged back into blinding sunlight. He did not know if even being placed among the stars would have satisfied him in that moment, especially considering all that he would be sacrificing. It was an unpleasant topic. Even less did he want to answer _why_ his soul bore the face but not the hair or garments of his youth, for all of that would expose the vulnerability that ached beneath his hero’s veneer.

Visibly he shook himself free of it all, instead affixing a grin upon his face. “There is no need to wallow in what has been, Asterius!” he crowed, and he splashed dark water at Asterius as he did, laughing as the bull ducked away with a snort. “Come, our spar shall see its victor yet! Guard your silken fur, my friend!”

Though even as Asterius let the topic slip and gruffly splashed him back with a much larger wave, that death gouge still stood intense and haunting against his skin. And Theseus had wonder that if his lungs and his blood deep within him were also aglow with starlight, shining as brightly as the breast of the Cretan bull and his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another entry for #HadesBingo for our nanowrimo event! Snagged the prompts marked and past for this one, I just love the concept of scars and constellations... also there are surely consequences to bathing in the eternal, perfect river and seeing the wounds of your life is probably as benign as they get.
> 
> \- I believe I've mentioned this before, but the stars are bathed in Okeanos during the world's day. Okeanos is invoked both as a Titan and the river, which happens in quite a few cases such as with Erebus.  
> \- Okeanos has quite a few origins... I thought for a titan that's also synonymous with the ouroboros river, it would be realistic to go with the rendition of Orpheus (ayy), which placed Okeanos close to the genesis and the origin of all (Orpheus loved water). Therefore in this telling, Okeanos has a role in creating the Cosmic Egg along with Chaos and other primordial deities (Chronos, Aether, etc).  
> \- Achilles' shield features Okeanos! I figured Patroclus wouldn't want to hang out there.  
> \- All I'm saying is it's suspicious that most of the constellations have connections to Zeus. While Orion is most traditionally portrayed as the son of Poseidon, one myth states that he was born when Poseidon, Zeus, and Hermes peed on a bullhide.  
> \- Taurus most traditionally is for the story of Europa, in which Zeus changed himself into a bull. It's also sometimes considered to be Io, who was changed into a bull, and less commonly the Cretan bull. As both Zeus and Io did not permanently stay bulls and the Cretan bull did die a bull, I thought it made sense for it to be him.  
> \- The Hyades (named for Atlas' daughters) is the star cluster at the center of the Taurus constellation! Very pretty :)  
> \- Castor and Polydeukes (Pollux) were the Gemini, and the men who stole back Helen from Theseus along with taking his mother and putting Menestheus on the throne (who would rule Athens during the Trojan War). Only Pollux was the son of Zeus while Castor was the son of the king, but Pollux asked that Zeus let Castor join him in the stars, to which Zeus agreed.


End file.
